A Resounding Yes

An altered life

2012-02-01T16:52:00.000+08:00

published in the Manila Standard Today, page A5, 01 February 2012

Twenty-year-old John Seth Cerillo watches a movie on cable tv at their home in Gatchalian Village in Las Pinas City. It’s either this or go online. But the Internet service is particularly slow that day so he could not surf. He could not do anything else much.

Seth is not in school anymore. For the past six years, and progressively, he has been nursing fever of up to 42 degrees Celsius. His tremors, once only in the hands but now have moved down to his legs, have become more frequent and debilitating. He always feels like he has lost his balance.

He was not like this before. Seth was an ordinary 14-year-old before his life changed drastically. He used to enjoy school and extra-curricular activities. He was into swimming, taekwondo and basketball. He was part of the choir and then became a sacristan.

All this changed when one Thursday, on 16 February 2006, his freshman science teacher brought a beaker containing the element mercury and asked the class to pass it around. According to Seth, the beaker had no lid. Their teacher told them to wash their hands after playing with the substance. The class was held in an air-conditioned room.

About 90 students belonging to two freshman sections were exposed to the chemical.

The following day, half the class was absent; the children complained of fever and vomiting. Seth eventually started to itch and developed fever and rashes. Doctors from the Philippine General Hospital—who had been called in after it was established that there had been a toxic spill at that Catholic school in Paranaque—had warned him and his classmates that this was likely to happen.

Mercury is a toxic element that damages a person’s nerves. It affects those exposed to it differently— some slightly, some severely, some immediately, others after many years.

The children who exhibited symptoms of mercury poisoning were given chelation treatment at the PGH, to expunge the chemical from their bodies. A massive cleanup was done; the school was closed for months.

For Seth, however, closure remains elusive.

For the rest of 2006, when there was close government and media attention on the school, everything seemed all right. After the cleanup, the school re-opened in June 2006. It promised to shoulder the affected children’s medical expenses and reimburse their medicine. For Seth, who missed half of his second year education due to absences, there were modules designed to keep him abreast of his lessons even while he was confined at home. Occasionally, teachers dropped by to inquire how he was doing.

Seth seemed to be the exception— all other kids who had been exposed to the chemical had recovered. Or, if they were feeling anything odd, for some reason they had decided to stay quiet.

Juliette, Seth’s mother, could not afford to be quiet. She saw how her son’s health had deteriorated, so much so that he was only able to attend one school day of his junior year and was asked to repeat it the next year. She also saw that as the years went by, the school became less willing to help them defray Seth’s medical expenses, which had been increasing rapidly. “You could feel it when you walk into their offices, how they look at you, it’s like they are saying ‘here comes this woman again, asking for money again.’ They question my receipts if these are related to the poisoning. But did I want this to happen to my son?” Juliet says. There were no succeeding modules that came their way, either.

On the day before the expiration of the prescription period for the filing of civil cases, or on February 15, 2010, the Cerillos filed a case for damages against the school and against the teacher. They asked for at least P6 million. “We would have gone to mediation, but in those talks, only the lawyer of the school would meet us, making an offer that is way below what we think Seth needs. There was nobody from the school’s Board of Trustees, its decision makers,” Juliette says.

“The school says it is charity on their part,” adds Seth. “They have never once acknowledged that they had some responsibility for what happened. But this was not an accident because it could have been prevented had the teacher known better.”

The lawsuit was heavily criticized. The school, interviewed in 2010 by another newspaper, said it felt betrayed by the Cerillos’ decision since it had been helping Seth with his expenses anyway. A social group was set up on Facebook by some of the school’s students in protest of the civil case. The Facebook page contains some nasty comments—“[cursing Seth]. Bakit hindi ka pa natuluyan? (Why didn’t you die?)” Another fellow liked this post. Yet another said “Mukhang pera lang yan (He is just after the money)!” “Nanghihingi ng 6M (Asking for P6 million?) WTF!?!”

Seth does need the money—now and more so in the future. Between 2006 and today, his condition has worsened. He has been diagnosed with neuropathy (brain and nerve damage), Parkinsonism, and his immune system is failing so that he easily contracts infections of whatever kind.

While he became eligible for college through the school’s Alternative Learning System program and tried pursuing his dream of becoming a civil engineer, Seth found out early enough he could not attend his classes regularly. He shifted to entrepreneurship (“because face it, no employer is going to hire him with his condition,” says Juliette. “He has to be his own boss who can rest when he needs to”) but encountered the same problem. So now Seth spends one day after another at home—except when he goes to the Manila Doctors Hospital to see his toxicologist and neurologist.

concluded next week

My Day One

2012-01-31T09:52:00.005+08:00

Yesterday I learned that the petition for the nullity of my marriage had been granted by Judge Nancy Rivas-Palmones, Branch 172, Valenzuela Regional Trial Court. The decision was handed down two years and seven months from the day I filed it.

I was on massage break at Nuat Thai when I received my lawyer's text message. There, in the half-darkness, with the scent of peppermint oil and the sound of traditional Thai music, I had a little time to ponder the implications of the decision, and, well, to just let the news sink in.

Did I feel like jumping up and down and ordering pizza and beer? Not really.

A failed relationship is one's own failure -- not just the partner's. Indeed it was my decision to leave, and my petition to nullify the union. But these decisions were arrived at as a last resort. Who does not want the complete package: the house, the cars, the kids, the cute dog, the white picket fences?

My efforts to try, stay and stick it out were deemed superhuman by my closest friends. But I am neurotic, and far from immaculate myself, so for a long time I wondered: how much of it was my own doing? Could I have tried harder?

Of course, in those days, I was under a wholly different environment. The air was dense, the tension constant. I can understand why other women in similarly-natured relationships fail to leave. It is not that they are stupid. It may not even be because of love. It is rather because they operate from a different plane, where the rules of the game are much different. They could not conceive of leaving -- it is simply not an option.

What is superhuman is snapping out and thinking from the outside. It is seeing that this is not what a marriage is supposed to be -- no matter what he says, and no matter how convincingly, or forcefully, he says it.

And no, you are not "sablay" just because you disagree with him.

So yeah, I guess in a way I was superwoman. I will forever count myself blessed for this. The support of my awesome friends (you know who you are!) and my dad (only family I've got left, everybody else is dead) was invaluable. It still is.

My mood today is more sober than celebratory. No fireworks, really, just a clearer vision of the road ahead.

So this is how Day One feels.

Disproportionate Me

2012-01-30T10:52:00.008+08:00

I love this photo of myself. This was taken in Cebu last year, during the Media Nation conference. Love the typewriter shirt as well.

(Following is an assignment for my creative writing class under Mr. Ramon "Rayvi" Sunico -- author or Bruise, a book of poems I absolutely loved many years ago! We were asked to write a physical/concrete description of ourselves.)

I stand 5 feet 2 and weigh 150 lbs. I used to be thinner, but now I am ripe, plump – and unapologetic.

My shoulder-length hair is thin. I make an effort to keep my hair down for a feminine touch, but I get impatient. When travel or work, I put my hair up in a ponytail. This usually reveals a pair of small white or peach pearl earrings. Lately I have been sporting side-swept bangs.

I am fair – more adult yellow than baby pink, I think.

My eyes are brown, my nose big and prominent, and my mouth skews to the left when I smile. I have a mole on my right cheek. When I pose for pictures, I suck my cheeks a bit so my face does not look too fleshy. I sport dark-rimmed glasses for two purposes: to appear more serious (I sound younger than I am) and to avoid that full-face look.

My mild-to-moderate scoliosis shows: If you look at me closely, you will wonder why something seems odd about my posture. My right shoulder is higher than my left; the right side of my back is fuller.

I normally sport a pair of jeans and ballet flats. I play around with t-shirts (folded at the sleeves, 80s style), blouses and collared shirts. I keep a jacket in my office drawer for when it gets too cold or when I need to look more corporate. On special days I put on a skirt, preferably one that swooshes around my legs. On weekends I am brave enough to wear shorts. I have equal preference for color and neutral tones.

I am not model-thin or commercial pretty. But I rather like the jagged ends, the highs and lows, and their overall effect.

Ode to Karen

2012-01-26T23:45:00.008+08:00

1095-A Karen was where we lived for four and a half years. Note the hanging bears by the window. Beyond them was my home office, adjacent to the living room. The carport was for our landlady's vehicle.

View of our house from the kids' school just across the street. Note that it is part of a compound. The gate looks so much better now than when we first moved in.

I took this on January 7, just as we were taking the last of our things away. What was once so familiar, now so bare.

Our landlady's mother sells great-tasting native rice cakes -- bico and suman. I took this when I dropped by this week. It is heartwarming to be told you are missed! I noticed only now that her bilao lies on top of my old white board where I used to make a meal matrix, good for an entire week. The rows and columns are still visible.

The kids and I lived in a modest two-bedroom apartment on Karen Avenue from July 25, 2007 to January 6, 2012 -- roughly four and a half years.

We were all so excited about moving to a better address that the pangs of nostalgia did not really sink in until much later, when we were bidding our neighborhood goodbye.

The Karen apartment would always be special because it served as my transition house -- from my old life to the new.

When I moved in, I had practically nothing, not even a light bulb of my own. I had a folding bed, but that one we lent to my then-pregnant sister who lived with us briefly.

I remember many things about Karen. In the beginning, when it was just Bea, Josh and I sharing the bigger room, we took turns using the folding bed while the other two slept on the floor. It took me five months to get us beds.

We shared the same zip-up closet. It was only in 2010 that everybody had his or her own closet.

Our television set was the smallest and the cheapest -- a 14-inch Promac. It served us well until it conked out, terminally, in June 2011.

I remember having no couch aside from two monobloc school desks. It took me six months to get a faux-leather sofa set.

I remember haggling with a junkshop owner for a worn-out electric fan. He wanted to get it for 40, I was selling it for 70. I needed the extra to cover my back and forth jeepney fare going to the newsroom in Port Area.

I remember shopping for Josh's masquerade ball outfit at an ukay-ukay. He became a finalist for masquerade prince, anyway. Nasa nagdadala lang yan.

I remember Josh's 12th birthday. He requested an ube cake from Red Ribbon. I asked him how many friends he would have over -- he told me three. Actually, 22 kids and one teacher showed up. I had to slice the cake so thin so everybody could have a piece.

I remember playing host to the children's many friends. For instance, after an 18th birthday party they attended, a dozen of their friends slept over. Actually, several of them liked sleeping over -- for several days at a time.

The summers were scorching, and especially so because of the wall that was exposed to the sun all day.

I remember being so desperate for personal space that I did not mind not staying up until 2 or 3 in the morning just so I could have some me-time downstairs, watching NatGeo, or CNN, or BBC, or Fox Crime. That is, until a cockroach comes flying or crawling by and pierces my bubble.

And remember the time Bea and I were fishing for keys at midnight, straight from the last full show of High School Musical 3? Somebody just came from behind and snatched her cell phone away.

In another instance, somebody threw a sizable rock to our window. It cracked.

I will always have these, and many other memories.

Where we live now is bigger. The neighborhood is safer. I can imagine where else life will take me and my children -- together, and eventually, to our different directions.

But I doubt whether we will ever forget that house just across the street from the school.

Poison in your "pasta"

2012-01-25T16:57:00.000+08:00

Dentist Lilian Lasaten Ebuen is a crusader of sorts. For at least two years now, she has been trying to go around warning people that mercury-based dental amalgams (what is more popularly known as “pasta”) are bad for the health.

One “pasta” is 50-54 percent mercury. Mercury is a toxic chemical—more toxic than lead, according to Ebuen. It causes long-term neurological disorders although the reaction varies from person to person.

In fact, mercury-containing devices in hospitals such as thermometers and sphygmomanometers have been phased out from the healthcare industry, through an administrative order of the Department of Health.

So if we don’t want mercury in simple, everyday hospital devices, why do we tolerate them in our mouths? Cavities in the teeth of generations of Filipinos have been filled with amalgams in our dentists’ attempt to halt the decay. It is even provided free by HMO-accredited dentists. But Ebuen says anecdotal evidence points to poorer total health among persons with such amalgams. People over 50 suddenly become prone to all kinds of illness. They develop Alzheimer’s or Parkinsons. They do not respond well to treatment.

The practice goes on to date. It is cheap, it is popular, and as many people like to say: “I’ve had this thing in my teeth for a long time, and I am still okay!”

And thus, so far, Ebuen’s crusade has been lonely. The Professional Regulation Commission has told her that the use of amalgams is “perfectly safe.” Some have recognized that the amalgams do contain the toxic substance, but their position is that the mercury should stay where it is—right inside the mouth. She has tried convincing her colleagues at the Philippine Dental Association. They are receptive but have misgivings. The practice of using amalgams has been there for so long. And in the absence of any hard evidence to convince them otherwise, why should they break the status quo? Indeed, the present crop of PDA officials insists that amalgams have “no toxic effect” on the patient.

Ebuen is an associate of the International Academy of Oral Medicine and Toxicology, a US-based group that provides scientific evidence to support the banning of mercury in oral medicine. Studies have been conducted in other countries.

“That is just what we need here in the Philippines,” Ebuen says. True— without a local study, decision makers will not listen, much less act. Without a study, she would continue to be a voice in the wilderness.

That voice certainly comes from the gut—a potent driving force.

When Ebuen’s son was two years old, a doctor advised the family that the child was autistic. Ebuen felt her world collapse. She had been wondering why her son appeared slow in talking and walking. As time passed, the child did catch up, and the only explanation Ebuen could come up with for the arrested development was her exposure to mercury as a dental student.

In dental school, she touched mercury and mixed it for the amalgam. Some of the chemical stuck to her watch and her clothes and shoes, some spilled on the floor. Who knows how much of the chemical found its way into her system?

Ebuen’s son is now a high school senior who is a varsity swimmer and who plays the guitar in their school band. And now he wants to go to dental school.

This is why she is in a hurry to talk to the association of dental school deans and other decision makers, to convince them that they should not expose their students to the harmful chemical whose consequences may be long term and irreversible.

She is starting a campaign to ask the Department of Health to ban dental amalgams. Will anybody share Ebuen’s advocacy? Maybe. For now, her goal is to at least get people to listen and rethink old practices—even when they seem to have been there forever.

adellechua@gmail.com

Elemental

2012-01-23T23:09:00.006+08:00

Seth and his mother, Juliet -- they are each other's life.

(I will write about Seth's case in greater detail for my newspaper column. This is just the back story.)

Today I trooped to Las Pinas City, at the other tip of the metro, to visit the home of a formidable mother-and-son tandem.

I spent two and a half hours on the road (one way), got lost, found my way back -- all in the noontime heat. When I got to the Cerillos' in Gatchalian Subdivision, all the trouble melted away. I found a gem of a story.

This story started nearly six years ago. Seth was an ordinary 14-year-old high school freshman. But in science class, held in an air-conditioned classroom, his teacher passed around a beaker -- without seal or even a cover -- containing the element mercury, which we know now to be highly toxic.

His life has never been the same. Today he is a man of 20, but he has stopped going to school and spends his days at home. He has been diagnosed with neuropathy and Parkinsonism, he is constantly plagued with tremors and unnaturally high fever, and has difficulty moving about like he has lost his balance. His immune system has become so weak that he easily catches cough, colds, and any kind of infection.

Juliet, a small, feisty woman of 41, says their lives have never been the same. She also knows that Seth's condition is irreversible and his future would thus look different from the ones being pondered by his friends. Gainful employment is likely out of the picture. So does marriage and family. "I do not think I can assume any responsibilities," he tells me.

Mother and child have filed a suit against the school that until now refuses to acknowledge any culpability in the unfortunate life-altering incident.

Seth is an only child and his parents have been separated for as many years that he has been alive. He is Juliet's life. It is revolting to think that an accident, arising from the negligence of others, has caused an otherwise healthy, active and promising young man to be confined to his house day after day for the rest of his life.

What I find most compelling is Juliet's devotion to make Seth's life as normal as possible even though they both know it is not.

The picture says a lot about their relationship. I think it is love at its elemental form.

Boo for bullies

2012-01-17T20:10:00.001+08:00

It’s a relief, however small, to know that Congress was able to act on some legislative measures in recent days even as it appears to be preoccupied with impeaching the Chief Justice and other related events.

This month, the House of Representatives approved on third and final reading House Bill 5496 or the Anti-Bullying Act of 2012. It was endorsed for the approval of the plenary by Rep. Salvador Escudero, chairman of the House committee on basic education and culture.

While the anti-bullying measure may not have the same historic, monumental significance as the events taking place at the Senate these days, it could spell the difference between normalcy and hell for young people in schools.

We have heard reports of children in other countries committing suicide because they were being bullied. Some kids get picked on because they look or talk or act different from the rest, and that they seem unable or even unwilling to defend themselves.

Even the television series Glee, which became popular two years ago, dealt with the issue of bullying in a high school where beautiful cheerleaders and athletic hunks were perceived to be the gods and goddesses on campus. If one were gay, or extremely talented, or unnaturally studious, or simply weak, one would almost certainly be bullied. The others will push them against lockers, throw them into the trash, or pour drinks on them.

The tragic part is that the children are led to believe that they are "bully-able", that they deserve the treatment they are getting, that they have no means to get back and thus must suffer in silence.

But that’s the US, one might say. Children in a developing country like the Philippines have bigger problems than getting teased in school. Whoever says this is talking above his head or is in denial.

Bullying is real. I know kids who have been bullied and I know kids who bully. In October 2010 I wrote a column called “Child’s (power) play” and talked about a fifth grader, who somehow managed to get everybody to elect him class president, who habitually pressures the class treasurer (a girl) to give him money from the class fund -- or else he would tell the class about her crush. That’s blackmail. That’s bullying.

A grown woman, now an active NGO worker, could not forget the name of her tormentor in kindergarten. She says that at one point she wanted to stop going to school altogether – she got bad stomach pains and could not do well in her classes.

And then there is another young man, a high school sophomore, who just transferred to Manila from his mother’s province. He gets picked on because he cannot play basketball as well as the other boys can, and because he loves to sit in a corner and read books. Sometimes he sits on the steps of the school and somebody would just hit the nape of his neck from behind. When he turns around, there is nobody there. Sometimes his things, bought with his father’s OFW earnings, disappear only to turn up in unlikely places. When he finally told his mother about what was happening, she came to the school. That sent the bullies laughing even harder – they said he could not take care of himself that Mommy has to come and fight for him.

Who wants our kids to go through these? When we talk about childhood and adolescence, we want to think about happy memories, deep and lasting friendships, unforgettable firsts. The emotional, psychological and even physical effects (in extreme violent cases) of bullying may also be profound and enduring. It could lead to low self-esteem which could in turn lead them to make bad, self-destructive decisions. It could make them bad parents later on. It could prevent them from realizing their full potential.

The bill requires elementary and high schools to put in place anti-bullying policies. These guidelines will be disseminated in various ways – through handbooks, posters and even Web sites. School administrators must inform the division superintendents of the education department about the bullying incidents. Trainings of teachers and school officials should help build their skills and capabilities to address and prevent bullying. (It goes without saying that teachers themselves must not bully their students, even inadvertently. Some months back I wrote a column "At their expense," about a teacher who made fun of her students' grammatical mistakes on her Facebook wall.)

The bill of course does not state the obvious – that the home environment is crucial to preventing the child from being bullied or being a bully. A healthy, loving, open relationship where differences are discussed instead of swept under the rug, and manifestations of genuine empathy among parents, children and other members of the household should be in place. After all, if the kid himself is being bullied at home, by his parents or siblings no less, what would stop him from acting out his frustrations on others? Conversely, children must assert that they must be treated a certain way. Anything less, and they must object.

The bill presumes that older individuals – those in college, as well as those who are already employed -- can take care of themselves. They are thus not included in the bill. This does not guarantee, though, that bullying would not happen in university or at the office. The organizations (schools and companies/ agencies) themselves should take the initiative to establish guidelines on this as good practice, even when they are not required by law to do so.

Bullying is described as “any severe or repeated use of written, verbal, or electronic expression, or a physical act or gesture, or any combination of these by one or more students directed at another student that has the effect of actually causing or placing the latter in a reasonable fear of physical or emotional harm or damage to the property, creating a hostile environment at school and infringing on the rights of the other students at school.” Broad enough to cover most things you can imagine?

Part of what makes bullying so difficult to track and prevent is its secret nature. Like corruption, it thrives in the dark, when no one is looking or listening, when nobody is crying foul and just takes the shabby treatment as a given. Schools have been armed by the law to take preventive action and not act only when a situation is already on hand. Let’s hope everybody steps up to prevent this insidious evil.

"The IJ person"

2012-01-14T20:10:00.005+08:00

Two days ago I submitted the first draft of the article I had been working on for my investigative journalism class. My professor, Luz Rimban, is a seasoned investigative reporter herself.

My main concern was that my story would not be "investigative" enough. This is the first time I would be writing such a report -- and I felt inadequate about my sleuthing skills. Years of being an armchair commentator, safe and comfy on my editor's desk at the office, did not prepare me for this. Even my occasional goings out for column material seemed like kindergarten compared to the task at hand.

And yet this was exactly why I had decided to take this course in the first place -- to get out of my comfort zone.

So this is the story behind my story, "Consigned to silence" (which I will of course post here, and publish in my newspaper column, once I have submitted the final draft to my professor).

Asked to think of possible topics, I handed in five suggestions -- all of which were shot down as better suited for in-depth reporting instead.

In this course, I became much more aware of the difference between "in-depth" and "investigative."

I willed a Eureka moment and it came -- I proposed a topic relating to a story I did three years ago, on DNA technology as a tool for criminal justice. I had a great starting point. My initial source was very helpful and very eager to lay the issues on the table.

Alas, one way or another, I stalled. My "story-based inquiry" did not even have a story around which to weave itself.

I flirted with the idea of changing my topic mid stream. Okay, more than flirted. I started acting on the idea, expressing my intentions to an NGO, making arrangements for a trip down to the small-scale mining sites of Camarines Norte, and going as far as forwarding a list of the people I want to interview (they NGO has offered to arrange all schedules for me).

Of course, if I had my way, I would not be going there pressed for time and desperate to have something for my project. It would, I think, be a disservice to the miners and the communities if I acted like some kind of parachute girl -- in one day, out the next, pleased that she has some material for her report. And, truth to tell, I was not sure if I was tough enough for the terrain -- literally and otherwise. Chicken or cautious?

I had another epiphany: I could actually tweak and work with what I had for the original topic.

And so I submitted the draft, Luz sent her comments, and the final assignment is due five days from now.

Commenting on my draft, Luz said she was "seeing a real good story here." It was encouraging enough. Her challenge sounded better: I needed to bring it out some more. Challenge accepted. I have never been an IJ person. I am learning -- if not for the practice, then for the discipline.

I do not have any sensational whistleblowers in my story. What I have is proof of festering neglect. Is it "investigative" enough? I do hope so! Let's wait for my final grade.

Apologia

2012-01-10T17:37:00.003+08:00

This is the second week that I would not be able to write my newspaper column. And of course, regular visitors of this blog would also notice there has been nothing new in the past month or so. I feel bad.

No, I feel terrible.

I can cite a million excuses. We just moved houses, and in a rush at that. My son was mauled and I saw the case through its resolution. I am writing a major project for grad school. I am a mother, four times over, to children who are worlds apart in temperament.

All of them sound hollow, though. I have always believed that if you wanted something badly enough, you would move mountains to get it, or do it. This past month, and especially this week, I was reminded that there are easy mountains, and there are difficult mountains.

It is not that the spring is drying up. On the contrary, my head is always abuzz with ideas about this and that, both for my professional work and my personal one. I keep a list because they are that many, and I don't want to forget a thing.

But I am just so tired and overwhelmed by the many things that need to be put in order. In case you have not noticed, I am a sucker for order, albeit belatedly (too much chaos in earlier years). This is my priority -- not as a matter of choice, but as a matter of survival.

I know this is temporary, and that this phase is ending soon. I am very nearly done with fixing my room (okay -- I share it with Elmo, but he's Elmo, so I don't mind). The ultimate goal of this transfer, despite the fact that it entails additional expenses both one-time and operational, is for me and the children to have our personal spaces that would in turn make us all more productive. We will be better persons, leading fuller, better rounded lives.

The stories will come. Soon. And they won't stop coming.

Eternally spring

2011-12-27T19:29:00.002+08:00

Let's flourish all we want.

If there is something I wish I had more time for, it is to be able to do some more spring cleaning. It may not sound cool and appealing to many, but it is probably one of the most psychologically rewarding things one can routinely do to keep one's sanity.

I did some of this last October, leading up to my and the children's semestral break. And since I am moving houses in mid-January, I will have to find time to do it again soon -- and in greater doses.

First, the clothes. Two months ago I got myself one of those big, dark brown closets with several divisions. I gave my old closet to my 17-year-old daughter Bea, who gave her old closet to 11-year-old Sophie, who moved her things out of the closet she had been sharing with 9-year-old Elmo.

Along with the transfers came the “evaluation” of our present clothes. I was able to remove those which I did not need or want anymore and found better use for them. By better use I mean offering rights of refusal first to Bea, then Sophie, then my aunt who stays with us during weekdays, then our helper Cathy. Whatever is left of this, as long as it remains in good condition, went to The Sack, which was on standby for relief in the event of disasters.

I also finally decided to tackle the five tall baskets of clutter that had been lying on the very short corridor upstairs. The contents belonged to me and to the kids, and mostly consisted of paper products. The stuff in the baskets were deemed not worthy to be in our respective tables or shelves. Plodding through the contents, I found out that about half of it belonged to the trash.

The exercise was instructive. I learned:

How to compartmentalize.

I like drawers and labels and putting things under categories. For this purpose, there are several groups to which the baskets' contents are directed: "Trash". "Book shelves". "Old textbooks for donation". "Old test papers". "Things to return to individual desks". "Grooming". "Electrical and household". "For cleaning/washing". These groups remind me that everything has its place and there is a place for everything.

How to focus.

It is easy to get distracted when you see an old manuscript, for instance, or stumble into a pre-teener’s diary, or old photos. You don't have this luxury. I force myself to be mechanical so that I finish everything within the allotted time. Don't try to do everything at once, as well, because then it is easy for your mind to wander. Setting aside an hour or two every other day – or every weekend if you're really swamped with other things – will yield better results. So long as you stick with the plan, of course.

How to let go.

Most of the time, the decision to consign something to the trash is not easy and automatic. For instance, you think you might want to keep a printout of the lyrics of a favorite song, or a nice bottle of perfume that an old friend gave you. But then you remind yourself that these days, there are entire Web sites devoted to supplying the lyrics of practically any song. There are those who have need for used paper all the time. And "perfume" refers to the content, not the container. Nobody wants to be a hoarder.

How to separate the important from the superfluous.

Spring cleaning also makes you do a double-take. What is important to you? Should you hang on to the souvenir program of some event you’ve been invited to? Probably not – especially since you have already written about it and have likely recorded the important details. What about the flats you bought in some European city, that which you have had repaired three, maybe four times? One hundred percent sentimental value, zero functionality. What about the tiny origami dinosaurs Elmo made using a post-it? Priceless. There’s a special envelope for that.

How to start and maintain a good habit.

Nothing compares to the feeling one gets after clearing out and de-cluttering. You feel light and sweet and optimistic. There is a feeling of being in control – why, you have just mastered your objects, fixed them as you saw fit. Some people are so unfortunate that they are controlled by their possessions.

There is, however, a tinge of worry. Clutter does build up. Can you maintain the order? Or are you going to slip into disarray again sometime soon? Worse, what if the children you are trying to teach by good example just won’t commit? I think the best way to prevent this is to remember how good it feels to have some sense of order. Because your mind is clear, you are capable of doing bigger things, better things.

The kids and I are looking forward to moving into a new home where everybody will enjoy a little more personal space. Because of this, I feel even more ready for the year ahead. It won't be easy. Sending two children to college will be hard. Growing pains will get more painful. There will be challenges at work and in school. Discontent in society will remain. Disaster will descend upon one region or another. But happiness is knowing that you will be all right despite all imperfections. And we will be.

There's only "wet" and "dry" in the Philippines but it is quite easy to imagine how the term “spring cleaning” came to be. Spring brings a nice feeling. The past is over and done with. It’s a fresh start, and we can flourish all we want.

Happy New Year to all.

The mad scramble

2011-12-22T17:08:00.000+08:00

published Dec 21, 2011, MST, page 5

Raquel del Rosario-Fortun is new to Twitter. It was her daughter who had convinced her to sign up. Her first tweet, posted on December 11: “Still trying to figure out how it works.” Three days later, she pondered whether the right word was “tweet” or “twit.” “Haven’t finished reading Twitter for Dummies yet.” She also talked about enjoying the UP Lantern Parade.

But it did not take long for the foreign-trained forensic pathologist, who is also a professor at the University of the Philippines College of Medicine, to find something close to her heart to tweet about. On Saturday, December 17, tropical storm Sendong battered Cagayan de Oro, Iligan, Dumaguete and nearby areas, bringing in floodwater and devastation that took the entire nation by surprise. Almost a thousand have been confirmed dead; hundreds more are missing.

As survivors pick up the pieces of their washed-away lives, the more immediate concern is dealing with the sheer number of casualties. What should be done with the corpses piled on the streets? Who’s supposed to be in charge?

Fortun thinks that what’s happening down south shows the inability of our government in dealing with mass disasters. “They are all scrambling. They are always scrambling. This is exactly how it was after the Ozone tragedy,” she says, referring to the fire that razed a disco house in March 1996, claiming 162 lives.

At that time, Fortun had just come back to the Philippines from her studies abroad. Fifteen years ago, she was the only forensic pathologist in the country (now there are two of them, and the other doctor is also in the faculty of the UP pathology department). She was aghast to discover she could not even apply her expertise here because systems lacked the most basic of processes. Still, she volunteered to help the Quezon City government. She then saw how the agents of the state did not act according to established systems, and failed to coordinate their work.

Fast forward to 2011, and nothing much has changed. “We don’t plan; we just react,” she says.

Foremost, it is not clear which agency should be in charge of the dead. Is it the Philippine National Police or the National Bureau of Investigation? There is apparently a “policy” that if the disaster is man-made, it is the police that’s in charge. The NBI takes charge in the event of natural calamities. Given this, the NBI was reported to have sent a 15-man team to Cagayan de Oro. “There are hundreds of dead bodies, each of which must be properly identified. Fifteen people simply cannot do the job,” she says.

Refrigerated trucks would be a good idea. “It would buy the relatives time,” Fortun adds. But of course we’re dreaming—there are no refrigerated trucks. She also wonders what Philippine National Red Cross chairman Richard Gordon means with “dignity “ being given to the dead. Is it gathering them in warehouses until their relatives find them? Putting them in caskets and constructing apartment-type niches for them? “There is no time for the cement to even harden!” she exclaims.

Fortun has a simple yet basic solution: Body bags. Unfortunately, our authorities do not seem to have stacked up on body bags, procuring them only when there is a need to do so. Putting each corpse in a body bag, tagging it (gender, estimated age, clothes worn and perhaps a photograph of the face, if it is not too bloated to be unrecognizable) and then giving it a temporary ground burial, if it could not be refrigerated, would be a better way to handle the dead.

Fortun says she is jobless in her field of expertise; she is employed by the state university to teach. Commenting and criticizing are all she could do in the meantime, but at least she is free to speak her mind. She is especially critical of those who misrepresent themselves as experts when in fact all they have is a position at some agency. Her tweets in the past few days are a mix of practical advice and reactions to the statements of some officials. Here are some more of them:

“Re postponed mass burial: What to do with the dead is now a political issue. Why don’t they try the forensic science approach?”

“There should be a SYSTEM of recovery and post-mortem examination to match with antemortem information.”

“You do NOT store bodies inside warehouses. Keeping the bodies in warehouses for people to claim will not work.”

“How will you produce, procure, transport and bury hundreds of caskets?”

“No coffins, just body bags. No apartment type nichos, just temporary fast ground burial. AND interview relatives for antemortem information.”

“How to manage the dead? SYSTEMATIC recovery, tagging, bagging, postmortem examination.”

“Refrigerate to buy time. No embalming.”

“Dead bodies do not cause epidemics.”

“And you cannot embalm all of them for sure.”

“You do not freeze dead bodies; you refrigerate.”

“Surely, this is not our first mass disaster; we never learn. We still do not know how to handle dead bodies or take care of our dead.”

These all pertain to the dead. After all, Fortun’s Twitter name is “doc4dead”. As for the living, and on what to do so that disasters of this magnitude do not cause as much damage as Sendong just did—that’s another story.

Unfortunately, that story is likely to have the same plot as this one: there is media hype, blame tossing among officials. Maybe because of public pressure, a few things—some ad hoc remedy—will be done. There is a lot of scrambling as if disasters were entirely new to our country. When the next big story hogs the headlines, though, the nation forgets.

That is, until the next calamity comes along. And then, like fools, we scramble all over again.

adellechua@gmail.com

Daang masikip

2011-12-13T20:56:00.002+08:00

(congested road, a play on the government slogan "the straight and narrow road" of good governance)

Some people complain, not of being wronged, but of being corrected.

At the Ortigas Central Business District, a residential condominium stands fronting Ortigas Avenue. Its back entrance leads to Sapphire Road.

A friend of mine has a unit in this building. And since she drives herself to work (her office is in Makati) every day, her only point of entry and exit to her building is Sapphire, which has been made into a one-way street.

It’s not a main road, and neither is it wide. It’s a busy thoroughfare nonetheless, especially during rush hours when every vehicle seems headed for Robinsons Galleria, ADB Avenue or Ortigas Avenue.

My friend observed that several vehicles park on at least two lanes of the street, on both sides of the road, thus congesting the flow of traffic. This in spite of visible “no parking” signs, and despite the abundance of two kinds of enforcers in the area: the Ortigas Center security and the Pasig traffic officials.

My friend complained to both the Ortigas and the Pasig uniformed men about the double-parking vehicles—some of which, she noticed, were of the luxury-brand types.
Some even bore car plates of politicians. The response she got from the Ortigas officials was that it’s Pasig that’s in charge, and vice versa.

And then some months back, everything changed. Traffic officers started enforcing the no-parking-on-either-side rule. Consequently, the flow of traffic improved. My friend felt, as did her neighbors who also complained, that at least some systems were working. They attributed it to the much-vaunted “daang matuwid”.

Alas, their relief was short lived. After about two months, it was mayhem on Sapphire again, with vehicles parking indiscriminately – to hell with the consequences. Incensed, my friend took the time and the trouble to get in touch with the Pasig City traffic office and inquire what happened to the good changes that had started sweeping the area.

She was told that yes, indeed, there was an operation done in recent months to ease the congested area. However, somebody reportedly influential “complained”—and so the rules were relaxed again. My friend was aghast. She thought that people complained when there was something wrong or unjust being committed. In this case, the complainant was decrying the enforcement of law and order – and got his (or her) way.

What a classic case of “wang-wang”, she said, something she thought had been done away with when the fellow she had voted for was swept into the presidency.
Unfortunately, the “daang-matuwid” culture has yet to really permeate the rest of bureaucracy.

**

I was surprised at the sheer amount of reaction generated by last week’s column, “Locked in and ripped off”. Apparently, people would read an opinion piece about what’s going on in politics, or some other topic, think about it and then keep quiet. But when you write about something as close to their hearts as the behavior of telecom service providers, they come out swinging – eager to share their expertise at best, or tell their similar sob story at least.

An industry insider who claims to have spent 18 years with various wireless operators in Asia says telecom providers are not customer-friendly because of an impotent regulator, the National Telecommunications Commission. “Big operators can refuse to follow basic requests for pricing, fairness and quality controls, simply because they can use their political connections to twist the regulator’s arm.” Indeed, he says “ Success is defined by what you can get away with, not by how good you are or how hard you work. “

Another reader asks: “What else can this be but deceptive marketing?”

Yet another reader has become jaded: “Why can’t we bother our lawmakers for a law concerning service providers? Or is it too much to ask for?...Big Business can make lawmakers dance to their tune. In an ideal democracy, we can get this to work... in ours, even if we are treading the ‘daang matuwid’, this will just remain, as our lawmakers would smugly smirk, ‘in your dreams!’”

Some readers said I did the public a disservice by not naming the providers in my piece. “If [what you say] is factual, then you have nothing to fear,” one told me.
They and their evil schemes deserve to be exposed,” a friend added.

Others emailed, texted or posted on my Facebook wall to ask who the providers were, just so they could avoid them. I was happy to oblige.

“I paid P8,000 last week and I did not understand what they were talking about,” admitted a friend. Imagine how many other people pay by the thousands just so they could maintain their good record, and because they do not have the inclination or the patience to comprehend their carrier’s convoluted explanation?

Finally, from those who guessed, and wrongly, and from the subscribers of the competitors who expressed equal disgust, I confirmed that this wasn’t a case of one heartless company taking advantage of its consumers. “We have the same story, but my provider is [the other carrier],” another friend, who knows my number, said. “They are already rich and they are still fleecing their customers!”

It’s an industry norm, an organized ill. “That’s highway robbery!” an impassioned Facebook friend said. The tragedy is that many of the millions of consumers know they are being wronged, but they bear with it anyway.

adellechua@gmail.com

A prayer for Edgar

2011-12-10T21:01:00.003+08:00

I don't like going to hospitals. I especially don't like going to Chinese General Hospital -- that's where I lost my mom in 92, and my uncle-father figure, Papa Edwin, in 97. I also have memories visiting my grandmother there in 2003-2004, although she died in another hospital.

My feelings, my cough and fever and the rainy weather nonetheless, I was back in Chinese yesterday morning, this time to visit my 53-year-old Uncle Edgar, another of mom's brothers. He had fallen into a coma one week ago.

I have only a few memories of Uncle Edgar. We were not really very close. When I was a kid, I would only just see him on All Saints' Day, Christmas Day, and New Year's Day. Those are the only three occasions where everybody gathered at Lola's home for some sort of family reunion.

He became more visible though, after 97 when Papa Edwin passed on. He popped in to see Lola every day. When Lola became more sickly in later years, he was the one who took over. He even moved Lola to an apartment near the factory he worked in, just so he could see her more often in a day.

Of my personal dealings with my uncle, I can only name two. First, when I was eight and was picked as a bit player in a Lito Lapid (now a senator of the republic!) action movie, it was UNcle Edgar who drove my car-ful of relatives to our location shoot in Porac, Pampanga. Family stories have it that they were nearly killed in an accident during that trip (I was in a separate van with Mom).

My second memory is Dec 16, 1998 -- or on the day I was supposed to bring home our first family car, A grayish brown Toyota Corolla XL, from the dealer. I was tasked by my then-husband to find a driver or anybody who knew how to drive, to the dealer and take the car home. It was his company Christmas party that day and he wanted to see the car on our garage when he arrived home.

But I could not find a driver or not even a friend who was available. I ended up asking Uncle Edgar, who stepped out of the factory and went with me to the dealer. Going there we met a downpour, and he spent five hours away from work instead of the two he had told his men.

And yesterday Uncle Edgar was there, lying helpless. His wife, Auntie Susan, was clearly distraught as she told me about that fateful day he had his attack. He had been complaining of dizziness. She urged him to sip some soup by evening, and when he did, he vomited and had seizures. The doctor is not optimistic at all, but she and her children, now all adults with families of their own, continue to hang on and hope for a miracle. They can easily start over from scratch, they say, just as long as their Daddy is with them.

I am not particularly prayerful, at least consciously so, but I utter a plea on my uncle's behalf. That he should wake up, and be with his family -- who love him dearly and fiercely -- again.

Locked in and ripped off

2011-12-06T09:47:00.003+08:00

I have been restraining myself from writing about at least two of my consumer complaints in this column. However, recent developments have done little to appease me. Hence I will cloak the next few paragraphs as an attempt to warn other users to demand fairer treatment from these giants.

I subscribe to my mobile service provider, Globe Telecom, under a P995-a-month post-paid plan. The plan comes with so-called freebies, and I signed up for unlimited calls and text messages to numbers I most frequently contact. I have a modest Nokia unit with a QWERTY pad that is able to access the Internet anywhere it’s available.

In the middle of this year, our family decided to get a router, a one-time expense anyway, to maximize the benefits of our Internet connection (care of Bayantel) at home. After all, we have several devices in the house. Everybody will agree that the Web these days is no longer a luxury but a need – provided it's used responsibly. My job also demands that I be in the know about what’s happening in the country and outside.

Such sweet life, I often muttered to myself, while lounging in the living room or bedroom, checking my mail, uploading a photo or reading my favorite columns in international newspapers -- all from my phone. I have fallen asleep reading, many times. I was only too happy to pay my bills religiously. Some months I even paid Globe extra to cover the “pasa load” that my son occasionally asked from me.

In fact, I never bothered to look at my statement of account, which I had asked to be sent to me online. I knew I was a good customer. Not big, but good.

I should have known better.

All the time I thought I was surfing using the wifi connection in the house, I was also being charged by Globe. How is that possible, you ask, when every time I go online my phone asks me which connection I want to use – WLAN or Globe, and I naturally say the former? I had to find out the hard way, waking up one day to realize I could no longer send outgoing text messages or make calls. Baffled, I asked Globe and was informed that I had racked up a debt of P4,800, mostly in Internet charges. And I thought I was a good customer.

It turns out that the post-paid plans are configured in such a way that when the wifi connection becomes unstable, the mobile connection automatically takes over. Yes, even if you say otherwise. The customer service agent, both on the phone and in the Globe center I later on went to, told me that I should have adjusted the data settings in my phone. My failure to do that explains my accumulated debt.

Wonderful – so now it's my fault. It was the first time I have heard of the technical mumbo-jumbo. If I weren’t still locked in (I’m tied to the plan until October next year), I would have found another provider.

So now I am using my old prepaid number while discerning whether I should contribute to my own ripoff. I can of course settle it right away and get connected again, but it does leave a bad taste in the mouth.

Moral of the story to all post-paid subscribers who think they are using wifi: Check your data settings. Scrutinize your statements of account to the last centavo and ask questions at the earliest possible instance. Nobody wants this kind of surprise.

**

These telecom companies! They act like taxi drivers in December – smug and arrogant just because they know you need them. Unfortunately, with the way of life we have become used to, we need them all year round.

Bayantel, which is what we are using now, was not our first Internet provider at home. We first had Wi-tribe, which made a big to-do when it first broke into the market. The problem with the Wi-tribe modem was that it was signal-dependent. It had to be placed at a certain angle near the window on the second floor. Then came typhoon Basyang in July of last year – and our connection turned from precarious to bad. At best it was intermittent. You also had to plan your usage so that you don’t exceed your limits and go even slower.

The kids and I bore this for the next six months or so, and we paid our bills anyway, because we were locked in for a year (which means until July 2011). Internet at home was really bad in those days. I remember posting an entry about how bad Wi-tribe was in my blog – yes, I know how to rant -- six times, and my readers thought I did it on purpose because I was that upset. But no, I was not upset six times over. It was just bad connection, and I did not think I was publishing the entry so I kept posting again and again.

Finally, sometime in the third week of January, we could not get online at any time at all. We called the hotline, as we have for so many times, for assistance, asking Wi-tribe to send technicians. We were told our request was being noted and we could expect their IT people on February 8. That long? That was the last straw. Then and there, I decided to terminate the services. I was given a transaction reference number (emailed so many days afterwards) for my request. After all, the premise of staying locked in was that the service was ok. Nobody should be faulted for wanting out when the service sucks, and when it comes as a last resort. A few weeks hence, and only then did Wi-tribe people pick up the modem. I remember telling them that even their pick-up was massively late. I switched to Bayantel the following month.

If you think that's the story, think again. Just last week I started getting calls and text messages from collection agents, name dropping a law firm, telling me to pay Wi-tribe. What gall, right?

I am sure whoever invented the idea of lock-in periods have good reason to do so. It’s protection for companies against unscrupulous consumers who use their services, avail of the perks and just stop paying altogether.

But the humble, good customers who expect good service and fair treatment must be protected as well. What good is a lock-in period if it shackles you into staying with a provider, bearing with its bad or usurious practices, paying hard-earned money while getting next to nothing in return? And then they text or call you as if you were the scammer.

I will be happy to know that I am a most unfortunate exception to all these. That Globe is forthright with how it charges its customers and that Wi-tribe provides good service and does not harass former subscribers who left it through no fault of their own. But it does not look like it at all.

Life’s already difficult. Our challenges are already big. Let us not allow ourselves to be taken advantage of in small, mundane ways.

adellechua@gmail.com

Indignation over impunity

2011-11-22T19:40:00.002+08:00

MST, 23 Nov

Today is the second anniversary of the Maguindanao massacre, in which 58 were murdered. Thirty-two of the 58 were journalists and media workers.

It is no accident that today also marks the first International Day to End Impunity, as designated by international press freedom watchers and media advocacy groups.

At three o'clock this afternoon, the National Union of Journalists of the Philippines, the International Federation of Journalists, the Freedom Fund for Filipino Journalists and the Center for Media Freedom and Responsibility, together with multi-sectoral support groups, will lead the somber commemoration. Participants will assemble at the University of Santo Tomas and will march to Mendiola.

The highlight of the event will be the “trail of impunity” that will be left leading to the Mendiola Bridge. Outlines of bodies will be drawn on the streets to depict the continued killings.

**

When you talk about impunity and violence against media workers, it is the Maguindanao massacre that immediately comes to mind. This is because this incident marked the biggest single attack on journalists.

Let us make no mistake, however. The problem has existed long before the November 2009 carnage and will continue to do so until the culture of impunity is countered.

According to the CMFR, beginning 1986 up to this month, there have been 182 journalists and media workers killed. One hundred twenty-three of these deaths were work-related, meaning, the victims were killed because of the nature of their jobs.
Of these cases, 46 are now on trial, seven have been archived, nine have resulted in dismissal or acquittal. There have been 10 convictions. No masterminds have been brought to justice. How could our nation not be angered?

Discussions and analyses of impunity have been many, as well. Various causes of this prevailing culture of impunity – largely understood as the impossibility of identifying, prosecuting and making accountable the perpetrators of violence, so that they are beyond the reach of the law – have been offered.

CMFR executive director Melinda Quintos de Jesus summarizes the conditions that breed impunity: powerful persons believing themselves above the law even as they rule agencies of law and order; poor police capability for forensic investigation which leads to a reliance on witnesses; a poorly-funded Witness Protection Program; a judicial system weighed down by rules and regulations that are vulnerable to legal manipulation; and a culture of violence and guns.

Beyond the indignation and the analysis, however, the bigger task is figuring out what could be done to counter the culture of impunity in our country.

United Nations rapporteur Frank La Rue, quoted in a CMFR publication, says: “Impunity mulitplies itself, (it grows) geometrically. Every case that is not investigated is an invitation for many more to come." He thus emphasizes the role of the state. "By not investigating cases, the state is (sending) the message that violence is acceptable.”

Indeed, media groups and non-government organizations can wear black every day and cry out until their voices are hoarse. But without government action, the instruments of impunity cannot be dismantled.

**

A forum last week gathered representatives of media groups and key government agencies who talked about what they were doing to address impunity – not just against journalists, but against civilians exercising their freedom of expression.

The Supreme Court, Department of Justice, and the Philippine National Police all said they were doing something to improve their capability to run after the perpetrators who believe they can get away with their dark deeds by exploiting the weak links in the system.

The Supreme Court, through Atty. Josefina Guzman of the Public Information Office, said it was taking an activist stand on the issue of impunity, specifically through the writ of amparo and the writ of habeas data. It wants to do more, but court delays are caused, as we well know, by the lack of judges and the restrictions posed by the Rules of Court. Many times, the courts are torn between the need to observe due process on one hand, and expediency and urgency, on the other.

The prosecution of cases is hampered by the lack of competent investigators, deficient evidence gathering, insufficient protection for witnesses, the reluctance of families to come forward, and sheer poverty.

Justice Undersecretary Leah Armamento reported, among others, that steps are now under way to foster greater collaboration between prosecutors and investigators so that they can build stronger cases against suspects.

Police General Ricardo Marquez, head of the PNP's Task Force Usig, pointed out that the greatest source of their problems is the discretion given to local officials in picking out police officials assigned to their area. This inappropriate relationship weakens the enforcement of the law because the police is beholden to, if not under the control of, the local officials. Marquez wants this process amended.

These are just some of the solutions and initiatives to address the culture of impunity. Will they be translated into action, or will the responsibility be tossed from one agency to another? Will the public's indignation be heightened by the absence of concrete reforms despite our outrage?

What will we be talking about on the third, fifth, tenth anniversary of the massacre?

We are waiting for more than the President's unequivocal denouncement of impunity.
We also need swift, decisive and orchestrated action to strengthen the weak links that embolden perpetrators. This administration has shown it could move mountains if it wants to. There is no excuse for simply lighting a candle today and then forgetting all about the issue until next November.

adellechua@gmail.com

The Wide-Eyed Child Bride

2011-11-18T12:15:00.011+08:00

No trips to the salon for this 18-year-old, 7-month pregnant bride. I was left to my own faculties with a little help from my future mother-in-law.

Wedding chariot. This was not the exact vehicle that was used in my wedding, but it is very similar. (Photo courtesy of sulit.com)

The presidential table was the only table at my wedding.

My wedding cake -- "Aladdin" was the Disney movie that year.

This is about my wedding, one sunny Wednesday 17 years ago.

Before that, I had been living with Jay for about a month already, in Unit 2-E of the same apartment compound in Barangay Marulas where my Lola Deling lived. Jay and I did not pay rent, much less populate the place with pieces of furniture and appliances out of our hard-earned savings. That would have been sweet. But nothing in that apartment was ours at all. Everything, from the pastel-colored plates and rainbow-striped bedsheets to the lowly tabo in the bathroom was owned by Ate Magdalena, Lola's irrepressible neighbor, who was married to an Austrian chef working in a Balinese resort.

That summer, Ate Magdalena was whisked off to Vienna to get to know her in-laws. She did not want to leave her house pad-locked in the three months that she would be gone. So she asked Jay and me if we would be so generous as to do her the favor of living in her house, free of charge, and treating everything in it as if it were our own.

I was technically single but very much pregnant, on leave of absence from university where I was a freshman. My grandmother was furious when she learned that Jay and I were even giving the matter some thought. She worried about what the neighbors would say. Fortunately, my gay uncle whom I called Papa Edwin burst her bubble. “Damn the neighbors. Look at the girl's tummy!” He, like I, could understand the conservative affectations of my grandmother but decided we would be better off doing what came naturally. After all, Jay and I were only waiting for the day I turned 18 so we could start processing our marriage documents.

Will you tango?

Ah, the proposal.

There was none.

Jay simply knocked me up. And then everybody, even I myself, assumed that I would want to be his wife.

His parents believed in earnest that they were doing me a favor by legitimizing me and my unborn child. See, I had a most unconventional family setting. I was a child out of wedlock – I would not know my father until three years after my marriage – and my mother had died the year before.

On the day after Jay informed them I was with child, his father was on our doorstep at six in the morning, asking my grandmother to please not hate his son because “it takes two to tango.”

He added that they had nothing but good intentions and would not in any way expose me or their good name to shame. Why, a cousin was congressman of the third district of Pangasinan – and would it not be nice to bear a prominent last name? He said he would be back later that evening with his wife. Would it not be nice, too, if we could all have dinner together?

My old-fashioned Lola Deling was mollified by the old man’s show of good intention. She began referring to that evening as pamanhikan. She bought two pieces of Andok's lechon manok and put an extra leaf of pandan in our boiled rice. But 7:30 became 8:30 became 9:30 became 10:30, and only then did Jay and his parents arrive – with a plastic bag of corned beef, noodles, soap and toothpaste. “My husband is a seaman, a second engineer,” Jay's mother said, as if that was supposed to explain their lateness and their canned offerings.

My future mother-in-law dominated the dinner conversation with tales of how she had raised her Jay-jay singlehandedly because he husband was always at sea. She enumerated the values she instilled in her boy, so that he was now respectful, thrifty, disciplined, ambitious – and a gentleman. She rattled off his achievements as a piano player, composer, theater actor, pilot and would-be aeronautical engineer. She added that their house was big and she had always wanted to fill it up with children.

In one of her rare pauses, Papa Edwin wondered aloud why there seemed to be a rush to get us married. We were both so young. I was 17 and Jay was 20. Why don't I keep the baby, remain in Lola's house, receive financial support, finish my studies, get a job? In a few years, when Jay and I were more sure of our feelings, we could make a conscious decision to marry and plan the wedding ourselves. Wouldn't that be better?

The rest of us looked at him as though he had lost his mind. Papa Edwin shut up.

Taking advantage of the awkward moment, Jay's mother started again. She told us that we should be practical and have a civil wedding first. And then, when we saved enough, we could schedule a church wedding where our baby would either be flower girl or ring bearer.

Jay piped in that he was looking at a budget of one hundred thousand pesos for the occasion which would be held at the San Agustin Church in Intramuros – for that rustic, romantic, timeless feel. He would hire a string quartet and have soldiers line up in pairs and raise their swords. Then we would march underneath.

I nodded my head vigorously, imagining myself with flowing hair in a long, lacy bridal gown. Sweet, I thought. In those days, what Jay wanted, I wanted, too.

I spent my 18th birthday by going to the municipal registrar and filing an application for a marriage license. The following day was Jay's own birthday; he turned 21. His mother threw a joint debut celebration in their house. Naturally, only Jay's friends and relatives came.

The party was in full swing when Papa Edwin dropped by to say he could not stay, not even for a quick meal, and to warn me that I should not even insist because nothing could change his mind. He wished me a Happy Birthday and a Happy New Life and all of a sudden I was fighting back tears. I felt so alone, suddenly wanting to run after him, go home and bring back things to the way they were. But then I saw Jay, holding a glass of punch, having a good time with his friends. I sat beside him, this boy I loved, and reminded myself I would soon be his wife.

Three weeks later, our license application was approved.

Tossing and turning point

In the weeks leading up to the wedding, I had difficulty falling asleep. I would not doze off until three or four in the morning. I attributed it to anxiety over the life-changing step I was about to take.

My new bedfellow was not too happy with my tossing and turning. Jay tried to lull me to sleep with his stories. He told me about the time his father came home for a vacation and filled their refrigerator's vegetable rack with chocolates “which I did not have to share with anybody! Imagine that?” He ate them up in record time and soon had to see the dentist.

He also talked about wanting to be a pilot so that everybody would literally look up to him.

One evening, Jay sounded more upset than usual. It turned out that his mother had stopped talking to him because of his decision to cohabit with me in that apartment and not in their big house “which would eventually be mine.” He told me he had tried to appease her by saying that we were staying in the apartment to make the separation from my grandmother gradual and less painful for the old woman. He added that I also needed to be among familiar faces during my pregnancy.

I sat up. That was not how I saw it at all. All along, I thought he liked the idea of the two of us in our own little universe -- never mind if the sheets we were lying on were not even ours. I waited for Jay to say that what we had then was a preview of what was to come, with the two of us, and our future children, happy and cozy in our home. We would start out with modest things, building our means and our happiness as we go along.

But I did not argue. He was tired from work-- his job as marketing assistant for his uncle's computer hardware shop and the two-way commute between Makati and Valenzuela must be taking its toll at that late hour.

In the meantime, my grandmother got tired of waiting for Jay's parents to come over again and discuss the details of our civil wedding. She and Papa Edwin put together a lunch menu and started calling people who would help with the cooking. They drafted a list and scheduled a trip to the Balintawak market.

Two days before the wedding, I was at Jay's parents' house. His mother had asked me to go to the PLDT office to pay their telephone bill and I had come over to hand her the receipt. She then gave me two thousand pesos. “Give this to your Lola,” she said. “This is my contribution to your wedding.”

I handed the money to my grandmother, who became angry. I was angry too but I did not know why, save for that feeling that something was wrong. Again I dismissed those vague but disturbing feelings.

The magic carpet

Finally, my wedding day arrived.

I had a silky white maternity dress that bared my shoulders and came down to my knees. I designed it myself and had it made by the seamstress down the street. Good thing my Lola, a former seamstress herself, had extra pieces of cloth stashed away in her closet. That saved me the trouble of buying the material.

For himself, Jay bought a plain white short-sleeved polo the evening before.
On the morning of my wedding, he asked me to iron his shirt. I did not know how to iron but I did not want him to think I knew nothing about chores. An hour passed, and I was still struggling with the shirt. He remarked that I was ironing creases into it instead and suggested I call one of the cooks to do it. I brooded for a few minutes. Did he just give me a thumbs-down in the domestic department?

At eight in the morning, preparations were in full swing. A long wooden table had been laid out in the compound's garage. Papa Edwin had also borrowed some monobloc chairs from his friends in the barangay hall – they were in bright shades of yellow and green, with the name of some official painted at the back.

Jay's parents arrived. His dad wore a yellow polo shirt and slacks and his mom came in a red-and-white polka dot dress I may have seen her wear the previous New Year's Eve. She cast a look at the colorful tables and chairs – and suddenly I saw them through her eyes. I knew what she was thinking. True enough, she called my uncle and asked him to send a couple of boys from the neighborhood to get white table cloths and a dozen white monobloc chairs from her house. She said the boys should scrub the chairs there since the visitors should not see they were only being scrubbed now.

“What visitors?” Papa Edwin asked.

Jay's mother also fished out 300 pesos from her wallet and asked my aunt to go out and buy 20 white balloons and have “Best Wishes Jay and Adelle from Papa and Mama” stamped on them. Her precious son heard her and told her this was not a children's party. She yielded. The greetings were out – there would be nothing written on those balloons.

She then pulled me aside and told me that the wedding cake, which was her surprise to me, was on its way. I looked forward to seeing the cake. My grandmother totally forgot about having to have a cake and Jay had not mentioned it, either.

Surprised I was, indeed, when I saw that the cake it was in true-to-form Disney format. “A Whole New World,” it said. Aladdin and Princess Jasmine were there, with their magic carpet. My heart sank but I willed it to resurface. I told myself to see the good intentions buried somewhere all that icing.

Just then, Papa Edwin said our ride had arrived. He had borrowed his friend's stainless owner-type jeepney and had asked his friend's husband to drive us to and from the Regional Trial Court.

I know: seven people inside an “owner” was not exactly the height of luxury. Lola, Papa Edwin and Jay's parents squeezed themselves at the back. Jay and I were in front. It was a bumpy ride to court and I had to lift my butt every so often to shield my baby from the jolts. At that time, I was on my seventh month of pregnancy.

By the time I got out of the vehicle my hips were aching, my left leg was cramped and my dress was sticking to my back from all that sweating. My got tangled from the wind and the smog – the jeep was not the air-conditioned kind. I did not feel pretty anymore. I felt as dusty and cheap and worn-out as the stairs leading to the judge's chambers.

We were late for the ten o'clock appointment -- “but not to worry,” the secretary said, “Judge is also late.” We were told he was having coffee with a friend and would be back soon. We waited a good 45 minutes for His Honor. In the meantime, Jay's mother chatted with the woman who I learned would be our godmother -- a municipal health officer she had known for decades but whom I'd only met that morning.

The judge arrived. He was dismissive and businesslike, as if we were doing him a great inconvenience by showing up and asking him to marry us off. He was so brisk that the actual ceremony was over in less than five minutes.

We spent another fifteen minutes taking pictures – with the judge, with our ninong, Papa Edwin, and ninang, Jay's mother's friend, and with the court officer who asked us to sign the marriage documents.

And just like that, I became somebody’s wife.

Party and after-party

I did not seem to mind the ride home as much. All I wanted was to take a shower and get out of that sticky dress. But the show was not yet over.

When we got home, the white table cloth had been laid out over the big rectangular table. White balloons had been tied to the backs of the immaculate monobloc chairs.

On the table lay a feast: caldereta, menudo, embutido, rellenong bangus, chop suey, hulabos na hipon, escabecheng lapu-lapu, pancit canton. My mother-in-law was pleased. Perhaps she was thinking her two thousand pesos really went far. There were enough seats for everyone at the long table, even for my two other uncles who had taken a break from factory work and had brought their wives for the luncheon.

But all I could focus on was the fact that there were too many flies. I was worried that I would not notice a fly in my food and I would ingest it and it would be bad for the baby. Even the Disney-themed cake remained in the box until the last minute because my mother-in-law said the flies might stick to the icing.

I did not have the heart to invite even my closest friends.

All of the gifts came from my relatives. I opened one and saw that it was a box of drinking glasses. Jay's mother remarked that she had a lot of glasses in her house already, expensive ones, and some dated back to her own wedding in 1971 and even her parents' in 1937. Jesus Christ, this woman, I finally allowed myself to think. Did she assume I would be drinking out of her glasses forever?

I looked at Jay, hoping he would say something to remind his mother that he and I would find those glasses useful when we struck out on our own. But he did not say a word. He was busy putting the electric fan on steady mode so that it faced him directly. “Damn this heat,” he muttered. It was the middle of March.

Somebody remarked that the judge was in too much of a hurry that he forgot about wedding rings. I panicked. Did we even have rings? I looked at Jay and his face was equally blank. But his father fished a red box out of his shirt pocket and showed us two gold bands that he said he had bought in Singapore. My name was engraved on the inner surface of Jay’s ring. His was engraved on mine. We put them on each other's fingers but had to do it several times so Jay's mother could take better pictures.

Two months later, I gave birth and went home straight to Jay's parents' big house after my stay at the hospital. I went back to school for my degree and had three more children.

And now it is 2011. That baby I was heavy with during my wedding is herself seventeen, a college sophomore. She has just survived a break-up from her boyfriend of two years. I am glad she’s over the hump – and has realized that your first does not necessarily have to be your only, or your last.

The others are now 15, 11 and 9.

I am a journalist by profession, but a writer at core -- a chronicler of works in progress, mine or others'. And I am in school again, in the same university that allowed me to go on leave to have my baby and did not revoke my scholarship. In fact, I am there now on yet another scholarship. It’s good to know we are still worth believing in, despite our occasional folly.

My Lola, Papa Edwin, and Jay' mother have died. Jay’s father continues to venture out to sea and visits his grandchildren, showering them with presents, every time he is on vacation.

The trial court has moved to the former municipal hall. The pitiful structure is now a condemned two-story building with laundry hanging out from the windows. In front of it is a vacant lot that serves as a tricycle terminal.

Jay still lives in his parents’ spacious house, coexisting with the many fancy gadgets he has acquired over the years – a drum set, three saxophones, yet another piano (he now has two), and a host of designer watches. There is a mean-looking black Nissan Patrol as well as a cute BMW Z-3 in his garage. I bet he could not be caught dead in any owner-type jeepneys, especially since his new job is in Fort Bonifacio, in the fanciest section of town. We see each other during holidays and school events. I wish him well.

I live in a two-room apartment I share with the children. The younger ones alternate sleeping over at their father’s house, however, to keep him company. Our home is small and the bedroom cramped, but after four and a half years, I have learned to appreciate the trade-off between the lack of personal space and the closeness the children share with me and with each other.

My lawyer tells me I can expect a decision on my petition to nullify my marriage before the year is over. I filed it two and a half years ago. The progress is slow – I can’t afford to “facilitate” my case, nor am I willing to – but I am fine with waiting: Waiting for the verdict, waiting for the rest of my life.

Seventeen years ago I was in a hurry, but now I want to take beautiful, sweet time.

Peace through printed matter

2011-11-15T19:59:00.004+08:00

Seventeen-year-old Arizza Nocum gives her speech as she is recognized by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts and the National Library of the Philippines for her work as administrator of the Kris Peace libraries.

Armand and Annora Nocum reach out to children in conflict areas in Mindanao -- where they are both from -- through books.

Some people are hard at work countering the culture of guns in the South and elsewhere.

When the Nocum family talks about the prospects of peace, or at least peaceful coexistence between Christians and Muslims in Mindanao, they speak from experience. A very personal experience.

After all, Armand – who hails from Manicahan, Zamboanga City – is a Christian actually a former Catholic seminarian) and his wife Annora, a Muslim from Sulu, have lived together and raised their children out of respect for each other’s
religious beliefs.

But this is more than just a mixed-religion marriage. The family has ventured out. Building on their love for books and their knowledge of the many heart-rending stories preventing children in conflict (and impoverished) areas the simple joy of holding a book on their hands.

This family does not just go out there and hand out books, either. They build libraries. These structures, Armand believes, are important in establishing children's habit and the love of reading. These edifices are called Kris Kristiyano at Islam) libraries.

The first Kris library was built in 2008 in Arman's hometown, where the Christian-Muslim ratio is 50-50. It is now a fully-functioning, two-floor library built on 100 square meters of land. There are about 5,000 book titles there: the Nocums provide incentives like school supplies to encourage children of either religion to come to the library – and keep coming back.

There are two other such libraries in Moro Islamic Liberation Front strongholds in Zamboanga Sibugay and yet another in a relocation site for Ondoy victims in Rodriguez, Rizal.

Their latest project is yet another library in Bgy. Holy Spirit in Quezon City. "It's a facade," Arman says of the middle-class subdivision that first greets visitors to this part of town. Further down live about 150,000 squatters. Small wonder that there are always reports of petty crimes here. What they intend to do this time is to attract the children who live in these depressed areas to read.

Another library will soon be built in Basilan.

We don't need to be told that reading has the power to transport children to places they have never dared imagine. When they are constantly exposed to the fact that there exists a place where they don't have to take up guns or resort to petty crimes to stay alive or protect their families, children will start realizing that they could do things differently. They could read some more. Finish their studies. Be professionals. Do something meaningful and help their families and communities build a life different from the one they were born to.

**

In the meantime, the Nocums' advocacy has been taken up as well by their daughter Arizza, 17 and an industrial engineering freshman at the University of the Philippines. Arizza was recently recognized by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts and the National Library of the Philippines for her work as administrator of the Kris libraries.

Earlier, Arizza became the first Filipina to win the Zonta International Young Women for Public Affairs Award. She donated part of her $4,000-prize to expand the library in Quezon City. For her 17th birthday several months ago, she conducted a book drive among her friends instead of throwing a party.

Despite these, Arizza looks and acts like a normal teenager – doting on her baby brother, enjoying her just-obtained driver's license and meeting new friends at school.

"I've been so fortunate, having these opportunities as a scholar and getting the best education," she says. She attended Philippine Science High School and is now an Oblation scholar at UP. "I just want to give something back."

Her father has retired from journalism – he says the profession is stressful and dangerous to his health -- and now heads his own public relations company. Working for the cause is not a breeze, of course. Aside from the obvious issues of security in the Mindanao libraries, mitigated only by the fact that they are from there and are thus a bit more familiar with the situation, the Nocums also have to deal with distrust from the children's parents – Christians and Muslims alike. Many of them feel threatened that the libraries expose the children to other worlds and encourage them to think differently.

Local government officials are also a problem, according to Armand. They do not recognize the basic issues – for example, the fact one pencil must be broken into two or three pieces just to be shared by more children. That kids walk several kilometers or brave dangerous roads in order to come to school. That they bring salt as baon just so they could eat something while studying. "Mindanao needs help, it has been neglected for so long," he adds.

All these years, the Kris libraries as well as the scholarship programs and other activities have been sustained by the generosity of friends and acquaintances who send books and financial assistance. Visit www.krislibrary.com to find out more about the project.

adellechua@gmail.com

A marketplace of memories

2011-11-12T13:19:00.007+08:00

This is the native, handwoven shopping bag used for the palengke.

Coconut-themed entrance to the BBB market. I took this when I was already on board the tricycle on the way home. If you don't like eyesores, then this is not the place for you. I don't like them, too, but the richness of my memories far outweighs the uninspiring ambiance.

(I wanted to take photos inside, too -- but security-wise, it is not a very good idea.)

The palengke (wet market) is very much a part of my childhood. I am reminded of this every time I tell the children than going to the grocery, which is the most ordinary thing in our routines now, used to be a big deal to me -- because we only did so for Christmas, fiesta, or a big birthday celebration.

(In fact, the story goes that I got so excited pushing a cart around that I rammed into a bottle of fish sauce, or patis, for which my irate mother had to pay at the counter.)

So in the absence of supermarket trips, we got by going to the wet market for our daily needs in the kitchen.

In my part of town, THE palengke is the one in BBB, a 5-minute tricycle ride from where we lived. It is the same now as it was while I was growing up: the areas for meat, vegetables, seafood, the carinderia. The fruit stands at the fringes. The filth, the mud, the noise, the body heat of each individual you come into contact with, and the constant danger posed by pickpockets.

When I was a kid, my grandmother would take me to the market and leave me to eat pansit palabok or halo-halo at the carinderia. This, while she shopped inside. By the time I finished eating, she would also be done shopping at the wet section. We would then be ready to buy fruits and then head home.

I sometimes go to that same carinderia now. The palabok tastes exactly the same.

At the dry goods section, one can find shirts, slippers, hair accessories and even household ornaments like curtains and bed sheets. I remember my Lola buying a red jumper and a matching red-and-white shirt for my tenth birthday. I did not like it much, but I wore it anyway.

I proved that my Lola had started thinking of me as a big girl when she started sending me to the palengke on my own. Those days, being able to travel alone, anywhere, was a validation that I was indeed growing up. I became especially high when I was taught how to spot fresh fish by looking at the color of its eyes -- and warned to bring back only those.

I wonder: if Lola were alive (she died in 04), she'd probably be proud of how I am running my household. See her fear was that I would grow up to be a bookish fellow, far removed from the mundanities of daily life.

So this morning I decided I would spend my day-off cooking for the children using palengke-bought ingredients. Our helper Cathy was on day off (on weekdays, I do send her to the market -- a smaller one near the house). I picked up my bayong and went on a nostalgic trip, which by the way enabled me to whip up a well-received tandem of chicken curry and pancit canton/ chop suey, as well as use the day's budget for two and a half days' worth of food.

I think I will be back next week.

Dragons everywhere

2011-11-11T16:32:00.006+08:00

In There Be Dragons, Josemaria Escriva is played by Charlie Cox -- "he with the handsome face and the worn-out shoes." (photo from www.blogseitb.com)

Some groups are promoting the movie There Be Dragons as a film about the life of St. Josemaria Escriva, the founder of Opus Dei. While this claim could attract many devout Catholics to the theaters, it could also tune out, and at the onset, those who fancy themselves free thinkers.

The pursuits of Escriva, however, only account for about a third of the movie (there are at least two other major characters). It is actually possible to see and appreciate it from wherever one comes, and through fresh eyes – religious inclinations notwithstanding.

The themes, after all, are not endemic to Catholics or to Opus Dei. They apply to humanity in general. In fact, according to the movie guide, it is “the fruit of an unlikely partnership between, on the one hand, an Oscar-nominated British director, a self-described wobbly agnostic, and a Spanish member of the Opus Dei."

A Spanish journalist, Roberto, is commissioned to write a book about Escriva. He goes back to his hometown Madrid to speak to a primary source: his father, Manolo, who knew the subject of his book. Manolo and Roberto, however, have not spoken to each other in years. Their relationship has always been problematic. Roberto decides to reach out to his dad, if only for the sake of the book. He cannot understand why Manolo remains uncooperative.

The old man is revealed to have been more than an acquaintance of Josemaria. They used to be friends, both coming from affluent families. But Josemaria's father’s chocolate business shuts down and the family becomes poor. Manolo's father, on the other hand, maintains his riches and dissuades him from maintaining his friendship with the now-poor Josemaria.

The two young men's paths cross several times later on in life. They become classmates in the seminary but Manolo (who just joined in deference to his religious mother) quits. When Manolo's father dies, Josemaria comes to comfort him – though he is shunned.

The civil war breaks out and Manolo agrees to spy for the fascists, infiltrating the communist movement. He however falls in love with a Hungarian comrade Ildiko who spurns him in favor of their leader, Oriol. Manolo the mole – and the jilted suitor – plants evidence of being a spy on the belongings of Ildiko, then pregnant with Oriol's child. Oriol is devastated that the woman he loves has betrayed their movement – and shoots himself. Ildiko gives birth in a farm and continues fighting. In a final battle, Manolo shoots Ildiko – granting her wish to be with her lover after death.

Manolo comes into contact with Josemaria in the mountains. He is supposed to shoot priests but decides to spare the latter's life.

The dying Manolo tells Roberto, for the first time, that he is Ildiko's child with Oriol.

**

The horrors of the Spanish civil war in the 1930s serve as the backdrop of the dark and complicated life of Manolo, the rich, privileged young man. He is taught early on to look after his own interests and nothing else. His father's death leaves him lost and he ends up spying, not knowing anymore whose side he is on. He experiences human love but also constant rejection. He gives in to vengefulness because of this.

Despite this, Manolo's decision to adopt the baby and raise him as his own, his refusal to shoot his old friend Josemaria and his final act of letting Ildiko go show glimpses that he is also capable of putting his own interest behind. Of course, these choices are themselves not pure. After all, while he acted as Roberto's legal father, he sucked at building a genuine bond with his son. In defying his "mandate" to shoot the priest Josemaria, Manolo killed his companion instead. And then, of course, in setting Ildiko free, he had to kill her as well.

Indeed the least troublesome and the most entertaining parts were those that involved the perenially holy Josemaria, played by british actor Charlie Cox, he with the handsome face and worn-out shoes. When he hears confession at the park to avoid detection, he pretends to wear a wedding ring. The woman telling him her sins ends up kissing his cheek instead. He is shown to have led a handful of young men who are not priests but who still seek to serve, especially in little, mundane ways. Every time he has a dilemma, the answers seem to come to him through interventions and little wonders – what looked like a tear on the statue of the Virgin Mary among the ruins, or the words of a young woman who suddenly disappears.

Of course, in the movie, all is well that ends well. At his death bed, Manolo clutches at the rosary that Josemaria has given him many years ago. Roberto forgives him.

There Be Dragons reminds us that whatever path we choose to take, we will always find ourselves in unchartered territory. There will be numerous opportunities for stumbling. In the end, it's what we do afterwards that matters. Nobody is good – or evil -- through and through.

adellechua@gmail.com

IJ

2011-11-10T07:40:00.007+08:00

Classes for the semester begin this week. For this month until January, I will be taking Investigative Journalism under Luz Rimban. I look forward to the next nine weeks.

The course sounds daunting, but I think that it would lessen my self-doubt a little. Since my trip to Cebu for the Media Nation summit a month and a half ago, I have been walking around with a sense of inadequacy that as a journalist, I am not really getting out there, talking to people, making hard decisions, fretting about things that are not easily called black or white.

Instead I have been ensconced in the newsdesk, in the comfort of my air-conditioned office in Makati. I work a few hours a day, having the entire morning and the early afternoon free. Working on Sundays and holidays has become an acceptable trade-off.

Suddenly I realize that for all this time, I have been commenting from an armchair. No wonder I felt like such a novice during the summit, thrust into a function roomful of journalists who report from the community and deal with very real, very basic threats.

Yes, I write editorials, pen my own column, and edit the other columns that appear in the op-ed page. That's tough, too but things do tend to become easier if you do them every day, year after year.

Now I think I am ready to venture out into new territory.

Facebook state of mind - 2009

2011-11-08T00:09:00.003+08:00

thanks to www.archivedbook.com

Jun 28 too exhausted and too crowded out to do the kind of writing i don't have to do but want to! hayyy....

Jul 1 is happy for *** who has been talking about writing a book for YEARS and has just today given me an outline of the three pieces he wants me to help him with.

Jul 1 is also wondering whether she could get in trouble for employing a 65-year-old maid...but Manang says she's strong and needs the job!

Jul 1 realizes she needs Manang, too...

Jul 2 wonders why she gets dizzy every time she takes a cab...

Jul 3 Elmo turns seven tomorrow but has fever...lagnat laki? let's hope so...

Jul 7 Bad English, zany logic or bloated ego?

Jul 8 an extraordinarily productive day: did two great interviews, didn't suffer a nosebleed thinking of an editorial topic...and i got to fix the small ones' lunches and fetch them from school! :)

Jul 20 here's one secret to happiness: know the difference between a crisis and an inconvenience.

Jul 22 the firefighting i did just this afternoon affirms that it is so much easier to be a writer than an editor, with all that responsibility. but who's saying we can't do it? buti na lang sarap ng baon ko (mango bar from red ribbon) :) ...headache's fading fast

Jul 25 sweet, sweet life: late afternoon in a favorite cafe, old music in a language i am yet to understand, my reliable computer and, as always, a blank document before me, waiting to be filled with words.

Jul 27 is putting her house (back) in order.

Jul 27 it's tough to write something on a topic everybody is talking and writing about. how do you stand out and say something new -- and meaningful -- nonetheless? im rewarding myself with bangus pate over sky flakes for this feat.

Jul 27 from somebody who's supposed to be an industry icon: the 5 Ws of journalism
are who,what, when, what and when. LOL. love this job.

Jul 29 breakfast argument: elmo asks for milo. i tell him we only have ovaltine and it's the same thing. he doesn't agree. he explains to me very patiently, like i were the seven-year-old, that ovaltine is "pampatalino" while milo is "pampagaling sa sports."

Aug 1 to my daughter bea and her friends: good luck sa UPCAT and here's to a great future! :)

Aug 2 is living with her decision not to hire a live-in maid anymore...and getting along just fine.

Aug 2 was viewing my daughter sophie's fb wall and saw a post from this kid, her classmate: "cr[u]sh kita." waaah! these are nine-year-olds!

Aug 5 found an old treasure...the soundtrack cd of the 90s movie Leaving Las Vegas. "My one and only love" by Sting is just tops!

Aug 9 sarap ng 2-day weekend. i'm still getting used to it after working six days a week for the past three years...

Aug 12 scrimped for the past two days and went to the wet market early this morning to get my favorite tiger prawns. kids and i had a fabulous lunch! :)

Aug 13 yay weekend ko na!

Aug 16 is exhausted from a trip to divisoria to find gowns for the girls and sad that she was not able to write her column for tom...bawi dapat :(

Aug 18 Graceans 93 will have a reunion on Saturday, Sept. 5 at the OLGA...err.. St. Mary's Academy of Caloocan City...campus. We have been given the 12-4 pm time slot. More details will follow soon. We will be getting in touch with you individually through text, and through point persons per section/ group. Please block this day off. Hope to see you there!!! :)

Aug 18 si sophia ay lalahok sa lakambini ng wika sa huwebes at magpapamalas ng sayawing igorot sa saliw ng "salidumay" ni grace nono...subalit mataas ang lagnat nya! napagod yata sa pag-eensayo. magpagaling ka sana mahal ko...

Aug 21 spent the entire morning watching a Sex and The City (the series) marathon, and wondered why carrie bradshaw, who writes a weekly column for a newspaper --- like i do -- can afford a New York apartment, fancy lunches and plenty of lovely shoes...and i'm still riding jeepneys... :)

Aug 23 graceans 1993...please check your inbox for updates on the preparations for our reunion. sa mga nalaktawan ko for some reason, pasensya na...paforward na lang from those who actually received the message..see you all

Aug 24 graceans 93 if you can scan more photos during our olga days, pa-email na lang kay ria (ma. lourdes) romulo at ria_romuloyahoo.com...she will make an audio visual presentation. deadline for this is on friday para magawa na nya this weekend., thank you...

Aug 25 graceans please check your inbox; there are new announcements about our reunion. please just update the others i may have missed. di po sadya...:)

Aug 26 some people believe they've got everything figured out but in truth are being so simplistic. unnerving!

Aug 29 Graceans, please check your inbox for updates. Also please give your shirt orders and name tag preferences to Aileen Alonzo BEFORE 7PM SUNDAY (that's tom). Thanks and see you soon! :)

Aug 30 Graceans, reminder lang to please inform me or Charm or Aileen once you make deposits to the bank accounts. Also, Mr. Casimiro said the parking area INSIDE OLGA will be opened to accommodate vehicles of those attending the reunion. Near Gate 2 ang entrance nito. Thank you!

Aug 31 Hi Everyone I'd like to ask those who have not remitted payments of P500 for the reunion, open na ang banks tomorrow and your advance payments would help us a lot since we have to make advances to the caterer and other suppliers. The Little Miss Gracean T-shirts that cost P180 each are not included here because they are optional.

Aug 31 Also, don't forget to inform us once you have paid. PLEASE BRING YOUR DEPOSIT SLIPS ON SATURDAY. Let's get these small but necessary details out of the way so we can have a blast during the reunion. Thank you for your cooperation! :)

Sep 1 a true leader can make a big sacrifice. i just wonder...is the wedding still on?

Sep 4 hi graceans, please check your inbox for some important last-minute announcements about tomorrow's reunion....if i missed some people, pa forward na lang sa kanila. thank you and see you all very soon!

Sep 7 is still struggling with words as deadline looms. waaah!!!

Sep 9 is thankful that this uninspired week is almost over.

Sep 10 has decided to look for an able/ trustworthy kasambahay, delegate the menial aspects of housekeeping, focus on the important things and train her sights on higher goals. :)

Sep 15 looks forward to playing Stage Mom this weekend as Bea takes her ADMU entrance test and Josh's band plays at Sausage Bar (Mother Ignacia).

Sep 16 Downpour in my part of town but barely rained where the office was. Drenched, I walked into a roomful of dry people. Talk about sticking out.

Sep 17 Old Swiss Inn waiting for my lunch date....hehe, my dad. Brrr, it's cold!!

Sep 17 Day Off = you don't show up at the office but are tired attending to other things anyway. when will a REAL break come along? i wonder...i wish...

Sep 20 so proud of my kids! wish they would always know what's good for them...whether or not i am around.

Sep 21 wishes elections here would boil down to choosing the better candidate (between two serious ones) instead of the least evil among numerous clowns in the running.

Sep 29 It is easy to say a mouthful but difficult to sound meaningful and original.

Oct 1 I understand my Lola now, after seventeen long years.

Oct 5 ever tried paraphrasing entire flowery chapters of florante at laura into 2 compact sentences? it's easy. i get good training from my job.

Oct 8 sometimes things just fall on your lap, and you do what you have to do.

Oct 13 has been awake for the last 34 hours and now feels like a zombie.

Oct 15 hates it when she has done everything she could yet there remain things over which she has no control.

Oct 16 is torn between cultural enrichment and plain practicality.

Oct 20 the signs are all there but the foolish choose to ignore them.

Oct 27 there will always be somebody in your circle, inner or not, who will drive you
crazy.

Oct 28 hayyy...the trouble and the torture our loved ones (family) subject us to....

Oct 28 is leaving the office with her nerves still jumping. home is the real
workplace.

Oct 31 me-time at my favorite cafe. good food, great music. would've stayed for hours, writing...until i had a low-bat notice. alas, breton does not allow guests to charge laptops anymore. so now im back to the jungle. :( boo. happy halloween

Nov 1 strangers not welcome

Nov 3 the moon's a fingernail, and slowly sinking. another day begins...(sting, ghost
story)

Nov 4 found hundreds of precious photos in my USB which I thought i'd lost. but it's time to go home. bukas na uli upload...:)

Nov 9 one crazy day. my column today is about the phase-out of mercury, a toxic substance, in hospitals. in a freakish twist of fate, josh calls me from home saying he has broken his study lamp in our room and asked our helper to sweep away the tiny beads of mercury. SOOO not the way to do it. they have opened the window and have disposed of their clothes and the broom. we are sleeping downstairs tonight...

Nov 10 went bread shopping. can just imagine a happy elmo...with traces of nutella all over his mouth.

Nov 12 walked from pier 13 to pier 15 then from pier 15 to my office. not a piece of cake at 2:00 on a scorching afternoon. but it's all for a story, so...ok na lang din! :)

Nov 12 was so eager to imitate what she saw on a cooking show that she used half a cup of white wine in her pasta sauce, forgetting that she had to pack the same dish for her kids' lunch. Hope they didn't feel funny after eating...

Nov 19 is learning the art of "applying herself" and realizing that 1) it's not altogether bad and 2) it's not too late.

Nov 21 yesterday,i spent the morning at the palace (covered a forum). but it was nothing like the rest of the day which i spent with my real princess, sophie.

Nov 24 your car is coded. you, however, are not.

Nov 26 will be in mariveles, bataan tomorrow for an experiment on mixing work, rest and quality time.

Dec 6 is this a day off? interviewed somebody in QC at 8am, went back to Val, finished column, cooked lunch, washed dishes, went to another meeting in SJ, window shopped, dinner at TOSH, brought Josh to a bassists' party, and now it's midnight and I'm still writing and killing time before two am when I'm supposed to pick him up...before i can call it a day. Buti na lang hanggang 330 Starbucks! Love this full life, though.

Dec 7 elmo: mommy bakit ka palagi nagko-computer? adelle: nagsusulat po ako ng libro, kuya elmo: (surprised) marunong ka gumawa ng libro? gawa mo ko! yung maraming robot!

Dec 9 in a critical situation where the status quo is simply not acceptable, is "no deal" better than a "bad deal"? ...(on climate change, not on anybody's love life!)

Dec 12 hi graceans. the organizers of our batch's christmas party are requesting those who will attend to remit their payments to the identified bank accounts (mine and teen's). we have to make an advance payment to the caterer. sana pwede by monday...thank you and see you all soon! pls visit cool graceans' wall for details...:)

Dec 16 knows how the holiday rush can kill the spirit of the season so she's trying to take things in stride. (key word is "trying").

Dec 20 it is always a joy to talk to people who are passionate about what they do.

Holiday

2011-11-04T07:50:00.004+08:00

I went on a holiday Wednesday and Thursday upon the kind invitation of some people close to our family.

All four kids were with me. It was a big deal because it was our first family vacation in four years.

It was even a bigger deal because for I discovered this is what a vacation should be: Organized and democratic. There was also much laughter -- and nothing feels better than to laugh together with your own children even though it is over some silly joke or anecdote.

Bea flooded Facebook with pictures. I guess we would always want to look at them, remember, and smile.

Complicity

2011-11-01T20:09:00.001+08:00

Nov 2 column for Manila Standard Today, page 5

Why challenge the status quo?

Bernie and Ruth are an American couple in their 70s. They have two sons, Andrew and Mark.

They are not your ordinary senior citizens. They are, after all, the Madoffs. Bernie was arrested in December 2008 and is now serving a 150-year jail term in North Carolina for pulling a Ponzi scheme, defrauding hundreds of high-profile investors of a total of $65 billion over many years. Madoff's feat is the biggest financial fraud in history.

Ruth, who now lives in Florida, was interviewed on the program 60 Minutes. She told the story of how she and her husband tried to kill themselves on the Christmas after the scheme had unravelled. They swallowed sleeping pills – obviously, these did not work.

Who did succeed in taking his own life was their son Mark, who hanged himself in his New York apartment on the second anniversary of his father's arrest.

Ruth says she would not be able to forgive Bernie for driving their son to kill himself. Apparently, while the boys had been working closely with their father, they had no idea what he was up to.

Andrew, who is now promoting an authorized biography, says he is never going to speak to his father for the rest of his life. As for Ruth – well, she just has to live with the shame of being Bernie's wife. (She became estranged from her sons in the aftermath of the arrest. Andrew "struggled to understand" why his mother stuck it out with his father after everything. She only decided to end her loyalty to Bernie after Mark's death.)

The public's reaction to this latest set of revelations are mixed. Some doubt that Ruth and the boys did not know about Bernie's grand-scale scam. Could it be that they had so much faith in their father's financial genius that they assumed all of the benefits came from honest work? How stupid could they be?

Another possibility is that they had started enjoying the comforts – no, the luxuries – that they had simply decided not to think about where the money might have come from. Perhaps they never even asked, so he never told.

Back here at home, another elderly couple has gained notoriety for financial dishonesty. Former military comptroller Jacinto Ligot and wife Erlinda, charged with failing to file their tax returns for 2003, remain missing. There is a warrant for their arrest in connection with the tax case.

The family's unexplained wealth has brought them to the Senate, where the couple uttered the standard answer of "I cannot recall" to practically every question thrown their way. Husband and wife could each post a bail of P20,000, however – loose change, some would say.

Mrs. Ligot is not alone. Remember the other military wife, Clarita Garcia, wife of Major General Carlos Garcia who has been charged with plunder? She thoughtlessly gave her husband away when she wrote a letter to American authorities explaining that the wads of cash found in her and her sons' possession were gratuity and shopping money from military suppliers who had their contracts approved through her husband.

Remember, too, the wives of the Philippine National Police generals who were stopped at the Moscow International Airport for carrying euros equivalent to P6 million? The generals were in Russia for a conference – what the wives were doing aside from keeping their men company, nobody knows.

**

I raise these examples to point out the crucial role of spouses with regard to the conduct of a government official or a businessman. Spouses who remain together most likely have achieved a certain level of intimacy such that one would feel secure to tell one's secrets to a partner. This is what the law assumes when it says that spouses cannot be compelled to testify against one another. This implies is that the bond between husband and wife is superior, inviolable.

It is thus natural to assume that the wife, for instance, knows what her husband is up to. Because how could she not know? Any thinking person would know how much a particular job or position would rake in. If a family lives sorely below, or beyond, the breadwinners' official means, then something is not quite right.

Unfortunately, some families don't care what fuels their lifestyle – the nice house, the expensive schools, the cars, the houses, the vacations. They simply feel entitled to all these. It may be that they know their husband/ father is up to no good, but they choose to ignore it. Worse, some know and knowingly join in as well. This is why in some parts of the country, politics is seen as a family enterprise. They have to keep all the good stuff – power, money, influence – among members of the family. Some kill for this.

All this is sad because families are supposed to guide each other into doing the right thing, or at least keep each other from doing wrong. Take for instance the various cases of corruption that permeate all levels of government, nationwide. Corrupt officials are not just government employees – they are also husbands or fathers, wives or mothers, sons, daughters, brothers and sisters. What face do they show their families – do they pretend to be honest, or make no bones about it and expect their families to just accept what they are doing? It feeds them well, after all, and enables them to live in luxury. Who would be so stupid as to challenge the status quo?

Citizens would – no, should. This is, hence, a plea to the wives and sons and daughters and other family members: Ask questions. Don't feel entitled to your lifestyle. Pressure from the public through the media may move some officials to action. Family pressure, however, could be stronger.

Of course, one can always choose to keep quiet. Many of us were raised to belive that family is the most important thing there is. So if one's "cooperation" – even if it means just staying quiet – is needed to keep the family together, or protect it, then why not, right? The (financial) benefits are nothing to sneeze at, besides.

Fortunately, there are still those who recognize that there are things of a higher order than what we generally hold dear. If you are unfortunate enough to be such a situation, remember: Neglecting to act, or worse, refusing to, is tantamount to committing the same wrong yourself.

adellechua@gmail.com

My little man's tough weekend

2011-10-30T00:49:00.006+08:00

Elmo came as a zombie to his school's Halloween party. I don't know if he quite pulled it off. He would lose his favorite toy in a matter of hours.

This was taken in Trinoma in mid-September. For several weeks Elmo asked to stop by at some toy kiosk where he just ogled the robots. He waited a month before I surprised him with his wish. In turn, he promised to smile for every picture I took of him.

Bumblebee in all his glory.

Last week at Robinsons after watching Real Steel. Elmo loved his dinner companion, who could only look on.

Today our first stop after his tooth extraction was to get a vanilla ice cream cone from 7-11.

The weekend started off well enough for my little guy, Elmo. He went to school Friday for his Halloween party in his PE uniform (I refused to spend a centavo on a silly Halloween costume)but I drew some blood stains on both sides of his mouth with an old lipstick. He brought a taisan loaf and a big bag of popcorn -- his "food to share".

When I picked him up at noon, however, he did not look too happy. He started to tell me how many of the third graders lost their money/ wallets. There was a thief at school that day, he said.

"Pati si Bumblebee..." he said, his face crumbling and his eyes filling with tears. This was as we were crossing the street back to our apartment.

Bumblebee, of course, was the Transformer toy, alternating between robot and car, that I had bought for him -- at the princely sum of P700 -- less than two weeks before. I don't usually buy toys for the children, but on this one I relented because I had noticed how Elmo stared longingly at the same model every time we passed by a store. And, kulit (harmless mischief) aside, he had been a good boy.

He had been scared I would be angry. Of course I was angry, but I figured his grief was far greater than my anger. He told me he had left the toy on his desk when his class went to another room to see a movie. When they returned, it was not there.

(This morning, our exchange:
E: Sana mamatay na yung kumuha ng toy ko. Madami pa sya ibang kinuha. [I hope whoever took my toy dies. He did many other bad things].
A: Anak, maghunos-dili ka! [Son, don't take it to that extreme!])

I felt sad leaving him when I went to work. After a few hours, he chatted with me on Facebook to tell him that he was being fetched to spend the night at his father's house. I felt my heart tear a little. I missed him already.

And I was glad he asked to be brought to me early Saturday morning. His violin class for the day had been cancelled, but he had an appointment with the dentist for a tooth extraction. We were supposed to go after lunch, but we went at five pm instead because it was just so darn hot outside in the early afternoon (actually it's after midnight, and it's still hot. And it's late October???)

What a traumatic experience he and I both had at the dentist's office! I could not bear to see him in pain and hear him crying out. The dentist said the problematic tooth was attached rather deeply to his gum.

I was holding his foot the whole time (the dental assistant had his head locked in place). My eyes were closed, too, and I wished our point of contact would transmit the pain so I could feel it and he could not.

We were supposed to go to the mall after, but Elmo needed to rest. So we just ate ice cream at a 7-11 and went home. I simply gave him unlimited play time on my computer.

We then talked about "serious" things -- what ifs, what nots. I asked whether he still wanted me to return to the big house. He wondered how a child would feel if his parents had other partners already. I told him I did not even conceive of the computer when I was his age. He wondered what things would already be possible when he's as old as I am. Teleporting, maybe? Type "SM" into your computer, press your head against the monitor, and step out into your desired destination?

He fell asleep, finally, beside me, with a pack of ice still pressed to his left jaw. Oh dear, I love this dude. I remember the grand time we two had just last Saturday, watching a movie, eating Mongolian food with kwek kwek, killing time at Cinnabon, him holding his then-one week old Bumblebee everywhere he was, talking, leaning on each other's head during our two-hour bus ride home.

Tomorrow, he's going with me to my office. I look forward to another day with my bunso.

Liza's ladies

2011-10-27T02:05:00.004+08:00

Coffee and cake with Nik and Rai -- we've never done this before!

Posing with a pumpkin along the SM Skygarden

I have three half-sisters by my late mother Liza. Shelby, 28. Unica, 27. Raissa, almost 25. We did not grow up together because I remained with my grandmother when Mom started a family of her own, when I was 7. They had their own house which was not far from where I lived with Lola. Still, because our homes were different, I grew up feeling as though Mom were an aunt and my sisters were mere cousins. When Mom died in 1992, the girls' father, Tatay Rudy, whisked them off to his hometown in Pampanga to parcel them out to his relatives while he worked.

My, how they have grown.

I met up with Unik and Raissa tonight after work. Raissa, a management trainee for Chowking (a branch somewhere in Pampanga), was in town for a seminar. Unik, who works at the broadcast equipment department of TV5, took off early from work to see Raissa. Unik was in a celebratory mood, because she, her partner and their two children would finally be moving out of her in-laws' house into a place of their own...by the end of the month!

We missed Mom (she died on Unik's 8th birthday, when Rai was not quite 6 years old) as well as Shelby, who does not even have a Facebook account with which to keep up. Shelby is a great singer but she dropped out of engineering school when she became pregnant. She married the father and had two more babies, under not-so-ideal circumstances.

There was not much time. Unik's partner Neal, who acted as photographer, still had to go to work at midnight. Rai still had to go back to Pampanga. (She had planned on taking a leave tomorrow and spending the night at my house, but her boss called, saying she was needed at the branch early Thursday). We did have time for coffee, some catching up, and a lot of pictures.

Mom would have gotten a kick out of the spur-of-the-moment, short, but sweet reunion.

At their expense

2011-10-26T23:48:00.000+08:00

published 26 Oct 2011, Manila Standard Today, page A5

Many Filipinos honored teachers earlier this month. On October 5, Teachers’ Day, we paid tribute to our teachers and reminded them that their chosen profession is not thankless. Indeed, teachers play a big role in the molding of a child—and in the grand scheme, a nation.
But while we express appreciation where it is due, so must we call attention to some practices that give teaching a bad name.

Take for instance an incident at a so-called progressive school in Antipolo City. The issue is magnified by the immediate, interactive effects of social networking.

What happened was this: Two national athletes were invited to speak before elementary students in this school. After the talk, the students were assigned to write some sort of reaction/reflection paper on the event for their English class.

The students, however, had the misfortune of being under a certain teacher—let us call her Teacher D—who made no secret of her amusement at the children’s compositions. In fact, she was so amused that she posted several status updates on Facebook (where she is friends with some of her students) using phrases from the children’s work.

Worse, at least two of her co-teachers joined the online banter.

Teacher D was “careful” not to put the children’s names as she referred to their work. Even so, she headlined her post with the phrase “Quotable Quotes”. She goes on: “Here are some award-winning statements from the Grade 4-6 students’ write up…” For every quote, Teacher D had a counter-statement: A sarcastic remark, a put-down question. Maybe she was trying to be cute or funny. Either way, she forgot—or just did not care—that Facebook was a public realm.

She also wrote, in a subsequent post, that checking those papers was exhausting because she had to take a break every so often to laugh. She said she should get a separate pay for checking those papers alone. Why, she even ranked the Top 10 papers—not that they were the best, but that they were the funniest.

For example, Teacher D says, in one thread: “Hehehe yang batang si ** (initials of a student), marami nang nasabing dapat inipon at ginawang libro. (That kid has said so many things that should have been compiled and turned into a book).”

***

A parent was able to forward some of the actual exchanges to me. She copied them from the Facebook wall of her child, who was friends with Teacher D.

This parent has sent a letter to the school administrators, complaining about Teacher D’s thoughtless acts on Facebook aside from her behavior in class. This week she was able to talk to the school head who told her that Teacher D was on leave for a full week and that the two other teachers—who apparently shared their colleague’s amusement—had apologized to the students for the behavior. The school official would not say whether this was a suspension, careful as they are as well about violating the teacher’s labor rights. Moreover, students have been asked to unfriend their teachers and just maintain communications through the school’s official account.

Indeed there is no law that prohibits teachers from talking to one another about the details of their job. It’s a fact of life that we talk about our work with our colleagues. Sometimes we poke jokes at one another or people we come into contact with. We air our grievances. But we do so in private conversation —not on Facebook where just about anybody can follow your posts. These days, you have to assume everything you say online makes a digital mark that can never be erased.

Teachers have often been extolled for their sacrificing nature. They forego many opportunities for personal betterment for mere love of what they do. We have heard countless stories about how this teacher helped this child cope with personal problems, believe in himself/ herself, reach for a dream.

What this story tells us is that teachers are human as well. They are given to ill temper, favoritism, and sarcasm. They can get childish and not think of the consequences of their actions.

What matters then is how they own up to their actions, accept the consequences, do something to repair the damage they had caused and ensure it does not happen again.

adellechua@gmail.com

Elmo and the sacraments

2011-10-25T08:00:00.007+08:00

Elmo gets ready to receive his first communion. I'm not sure he gets it all, though. Then again, he doesn't have to.

First confession. Elmo looks adorable -- and all innocent -- even from the back.

Elmo does not have any pictures from his baptismal party. That's because he had none.

In December 2002, when he was six months old, our family was just getting back on track after his father had been retrenched from his job in Singapore. I had just resumed working, myself, and did not have any savings. So one Sunday we decided a baptism was more important than a baptismal party. We took Elmo to church and had his brother and sisters occupy the entire pew meant for godparents. I did scribble some names on the information sheet at the parish office. And then we drove off to Max's for a simple lunch for six.

Elmo is nine now, and he will be having his first holy communion in a few hours. Our conditions today are very much different. So are my religious thoughts and practices.

The kids and I don't go to Sunday mass or pray the rosary. We have only one religious relic -- a small statue of the Holy Family given us by my erstwhile dad-in-law -- in our apartment. We don't talk about our Catholic faith. We generally agree that the Bible is not a faithful chronicle of historical events. What we talk about is the superiority of openness to any faith or idea. We know that our being Catholic is an accident of birth that does not make us any better or worse than the next fellow.

Why is Elmo still taking his communion? I asked him this and he told me: "Why, Mom, because you said so."

Why do I say so?

It is always good to begin somewhere. After all, I myself was born and raised a Catholic. When I was a kid, my Lola used to read aloud a chapter from the Old Testament -- in Tagalog - every night. We listened to a radio show that always culminated in prayer, where the listeners had to put their left hand on the radio and raise their right as if reaching for the hand of God. I spent sixteen years in Catholic educational institutions.

I did not turn out so bad.

I admit I am what one would call a cafeteria Catholic, choosing only the aspect of the faith which do not come into conflict with my own beliefs and practices. I am averse to rituals. I was not married in Catholic rites (a relief!) I admit, too, that this state is a result of my exposure to double-speaking cerrado Catolicos: pious outside, rotten inside. On the other hand, I am secure in my spirituality. I believe in a god -- although I hesitate to tag him, her or it as Allah, God the father, Jesus Christ, etc. I believe I am a good person, and I am one just because -- not because I dream "of the gates of heaven and dread the gates of hell."

Later, I would wish for Elmo to have this same kind of serene acceptance and inner strength. If he finds it elsewhere, outside of this faith he was born to, then that is good. But that would be for later, when he is able to think, evaluate and decide for himself.

For now, he's just a boy, and here is a good foundation.

Memory gap

2011-10-21T16:46:00.005+08:00

Sometimes I worry I will have Alzheimer's disease later on in my life.

Today I brought Elmo to the barber shop -- two houses away from my place -- and forgot all about him. When I dropped him off, I told the barber that I would be back in 15 minutes. He was still cutting somebody else's hair, but Elmo was next. I told Elmo I needed to do some other things in the house.

When I arrived at home, only Sophie was in the living room. I asked her how her quarter exams went. I forget now what she was watching, but I watched TV with her for a while. And then I went online to see my friends' reactions to the photos I had posted on Facebook earlier that morning. I also checked my mail and noted, happily, that two columnists out of five had submitted well before the deadline. Maybe I could finish work early tonight. I looked at my blog statistics and wondered who my regular readers were.

And then a clean-cut, slightly more rounded-looking Elmo appeared at the door. He walked back home on his own. Jesus. What kind of mother am I? I remembered reading a Pulitzer prize-winning piece about parents who forgot that their children were in their cars. Is this not the same offense, only on a different scale and a decidedly different consequence?

That I was supposed to return for Elmo completely escaped me. I somehow thought he was upstairs with Bea, playing with his robots or watching Transformers trailers on YouTube.

Yesterday, I was one of the first customers in the newly-opened Nuat Thai massage place on the street near my office. I opted for the pressure-point, "dry" approach, but I brought along my favorite balm for maximum relief. I've been having problems with my left hip and hamstring for a year now, aside from (or as a result of?) my mild-to-moderate scoliosis. When the massage was over, I sipped my complimentary hot tea and saw that the attendant had put the balm beside the mattress. When I was about to pay, she asked me whether I saw the balm. I said no, I did not take it, and she went back into the room to fetch it. But she could not find the balm -- and guess what? It was in my jeans pocket. What I remembered was SEEING it, not TAKING it.

There are many other instances that I wonder whether I am just growing old, just too busy -- am I not making enough lists? -- or headed for dementia. My problem is that cannot remember any more of those instances right now.

Odd man out

2011-10-21T09:45:00.003+08:00

I am home this morning doing more spring cleaning and I have decided to turn off the tv. CNN and BBC are all over the Gaddhafi story. CNN even caught a new video, taken a bit earlier than what was shown last night, of a visibly alive though bloodied Gaddhafi surrounded by rebels. How exactly he moved from point A (alive) to point B (dead) is still being established. There are different versions and speculations.

When they are not playing this video or showing that of Hillary Clinton exclaiming "Wow!" as she read the news from her Blackberry, they talk about the former dictator's eccentricity. He surrounds himself with beautiful young Caucasian nurses, hates to stay on air more than a few hours, hates to stay above the ground floor of any building, likes to erect a tent when he's in a foreign country, rambles, dresses flamboyantly and is, really, just crazy.

Of course, people can forgive crazy. What they can't forgive is cruelty, suppression and cold-blooded murder both within Libya's borders and outside of it. The international community remembers West Berlin or Lockerbie. The Libyan people, more. Much more.

I wrote about this because what struck me most in that latest video (which I will NOT use here) is the confused look on Gaddhafi's face. Earlier he had been found hiding in a sewage pipe, like a rat. He had a golden pistol with him but he reportedly uttered to the rebels: "Don't shoot." Why did he look confused? Did he really and truly disbelieve that people could hate him that much?

It's over now, for him. But not for the Libyans, or for any other country that successfully throws out an unwanted leader. The next challenge -- of rebuilding, and making sure one does not fall into the same traps -- is much more daunting.

Outrage, occupancy and flight

2011-10-18T08:21:00.004+08:00

In despair, Filipinos do not occupy streets and parks. They leave altogether.

It started as a random show of indignation on September 17 in New York City. Occupy Wall Street is a form of people power that fights “...the corrosive power of major banks and multinational corporations over the democratic process, and the role of Wall Street in creating an economic collapse that has caused the greatest recession in generations.” (www.occupywallst.org)

The movement aims to expose how the richest 1 percent of population “who are writing the rules of the global economy are imposing an agenda of neoliberalism and economic inequality that is foreclosing our future.”

The other 99 percent is fighting back. From www.wearethe99percent.tumblr.com: “We are the 99 percent. We are getting kicked out of our homes. We are forced to choose between groceries and rent. We are denied quality medical care. We are suffering from environmental pollution. We are working long hours for little pay and no rights, if we're working at all. We are getting nothing while the other 1 percent is getting everything.”

New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof quotes former United States Vice President Al Gore who says that the protests are “the primal scream of democracy.” Kristof says people are protesting, not political and legal inequity, but economic inequity.

In the meantime, who is taking to the streets? Young people, yes, but old ones, too. There are students, fresh graduates, farmers, retirees, the unemployed. And now the movement has spread to Europe and Asia, with angry, indignant people taking to the streets, denouncing how excess-prone corporations have been allowed by their respective governments to rake in profits while most people are deep in debt, out of jobs, and out of hope. There are peaceful protests and there are violent protests but they have a common denominator: outrage.

Of course, not everybody agrees with the occupiers. There are counter-movements that aim to discredit the protests. For example, a group claiming to represent taxpaying Americans says there will always be people who will have things better than you do, so it does not pay to act on your discontent by taking to the streets. A CNN financial journalist took the protesters to task for using gadgets and other products of the capitalist economic system they so derided. A Web site, www.ranker.com, lists the top ten “most unhinged reactions to Occupy Wall Street.” They “come from, not surprisingly, conservative commentators and politicians.”

On Twitter, the reaction is mixed as well. One user says maybe the protesters would have more money if they went to work (rather than camped out on the streets). Some blame US President Barack Obama for fueling class warfare, for pitting the haves against the have-nots. Worse, some project that the Occupy Wall Street movement will fizzle out eventually, fashionable as it appears today.

**

Back here at home, a sweeping denouncement of corporate greed (not just the greed of one company), even as this country is indeed run by the corporate elite, and even as the gap between rich and poor are even more obscene, does not appear imminent. If people are angry at anything, it would be at the government for not being able to lift them up from poverty as so many local and national politicians have promised during campaign season.

This shows the extent to which the population has pinned its hopes on government. On one hand, it makes sense. Governments are supposed to provide basic social services to its citizens – education, transportation, access to health services, and protection from crime and conflict. On the other, it betrays a near-fatalistic reliance on the state to do everything for citizens.

On Facebook, for instance, there is a page for Occupy Philippines that says: “Take back our country from politicians pretending to be pro-people and from other groups oppressing the people through coercion, intimidation and perpetuating the status quo.”

Malacañang is quick to say it does not think anything similar to Occupy Wall Street will happen here. “We have always fought for inclusive growth,” says spokesman Edwin Lacierda. But if he is speaking as a member of the Aquino administration – as distinct from all previous administrations -- Lacierda misses the point. The discontent and the outrage over the status quo has been there regardless of who the occupant of Malacañang is.

For many years, people have riled against the pervading culture of corruption at all levels of the government. Doublespeak among officials. The monkeying around of lawmakers. The inability – or refusal, if you will – to fix bad roads and build better schools. The lack of discipline among the populace, the culture of envy, the undue premium on one’s last name or position in society, the sheer unavailability of opportunity or the proliferation of crimes.

In some strange, unintended way, the Palace is right: It won't happen here. Unlike the protesters in New York and elsewhere in the world, Filipinos use another way to show their disgust. The best and the brightest give up and seek a place where they would be justly rewarded for their talent and their hard work. Mothers and fathers make the painful decision to be away from their children just so they could have opportunities that are just not available here. Young people who decide to forego opportunity and stay behind grow into middle age, their idealism morphing into despair. Others have just gotten exhausted struggling and not being able to rise above the issue of meeting one’s basic needs.

More and more Filipinos are giving up. No, they don't occupy streets and parks. They leave. They look elsewhere, embracing the devil they don't know.

adellechua@gmail.com

A bubble and a fine line

2011-10-11T11:03:00.005+08:00

Welcome banner from the organizers and sponsors

PCIJ's Ed Lingao delivered this presentation on the statistics on murdered journalists.

Lunch on the second day with former Governor Grace Padaca (local radio commentator for 14 years), Danton Remoto (my former English professor and thesis adviser, formerly with UNDP and now with TV5), Melvin Gascon (PDI-Pangasinan), Jules Benitez (MindaNews), Adrian Amatong (from Dipolog) and Rorie Fajardo (Center for Community Journalism and Development)

Class picture. The collective journalistic experience is formidable.

(photos from the Facebook page of Gov. Padaca)

Where does journalism end and advocacy begin?

This year’s Media Nation centered around the Philippines as “the most dangerous place for journalists.” Around 80 professionals from television, radio, print and online networks from all over the country converged at the Marco Polo Hotel in Cebu the other weekend for two half-day sessions of a “talk shop” on the perils and pitfalls of the profession.

Organized by the civil society group pagbabago@pilipinas, Media Nation 8 explored why media murders are taking place and how journalists do what they do in the context of broader and deeper issues in the country and in the world.

The Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism says there have been 180 journalists killed since 1986, 121 of them in the line of duty. Other organizations have other figures. The National Union of Journalists of the Philippines, for instance, says on its Web site that there have been 146 journalists killed since 1986, 104 during the time of former President Gloria Arroyo and five so far under the administration of President Benigno Aquino III.

The figures differ because of the definition: Who is a journalist, really? Does he or she have to be employed by a legitimate media company? What if he or she is a blocktimer, i.e., occupying slots purchased by politicians/businessmen? What if he or she is employed by a media company but does not perform journalistic functions? What if he or she has another, main job and just happens to have a column or a show? What if the killing is not related to the job – a land dispute, for instance, or a love affair gone wrong?

Questions breed more questions: Are media, then, supposed to be in a bubble, enjoying protection in their attempt to deliver the news to the public? Or is the danger part of the inherent risk that the profession entails, a profession nobody imposed on us and which we embraced willingly? The implication is that the life of a journalist is more precious than another's. Is this not elitism, hubris of the highest order?

And then, there is the apparent lack of outrage from the general public. Why are Filipinos not outraged at these killings? Some offered the theory that journalists have lost their credibility, that their professional conduct deserves no outrage from the rest of the populace.

It could also be that there is no outrage because people, especially those in the provinces, do not know any better. They may be indifferent, because there are more immediate things to worry about like putting food on the table, sending their kids to school or getting out of harm’s way in the event of conflict or a disaster.

They may not know any better because they may think, for lack of education or exposure, that what is happening is the norm. Their local politicians might as well be their gods, determining their fate, ambition, mobility -- even life and death. Who dared question them? Look at the ones who did.

Some argue that impunity is tempered by exposure to a bigger world. For instance, for so long as the national media is there, local politicians hesitate to commit brazen acts because this would be reported to a broader audience, that which they cannot control. But does this not destroy the spirit of community journalism and encourage “parachute” observers who fly into the zone knowing next to nothing, absorb everything in one day, and report on the issue as though they were an expert?

The organizers put forth the theory that we have not generated enough outrage and support from the public because we have been framing the issue in terms of body count, a mere list of names. Each of the dead are also sons and daughters, parents, spouses, brothers and sisters, friends, colleagues and many others.

Finally, the conference also touched on current issues such as WikiLeaks and citizen journalism. On one hand, WikiLeaks fosters a culture of openness in a world that is increasingly becoming secretive. On the other hand, it is nothing but a dump of information. In order to make sense of the overload and separate the relevant from the irrelevant, journalists must do their jobs, and do it well. Information obtained from WikiLeaks as well as from citizen journalists in this free-for-all world must not be taken as they are. They must be perceived as leads – which journalists with their skills, discipline and ethics, must pursue to determine whether there is a story worth telling.

**

My takeaway came a bit belatedly – and, not surprisingly, in the form of another question. Can a journalist be an advocate? Can he or she champion causes such as transparency, good governance, women empowerment, the environment? Is embracing an advocacy – especially if one did so passionately -- a way to make oneself a traget?

We have been taught that the journalist must be fair and objective and must not advocate anything. He or she should just lay down the issues on the table, and let the people arrive at their own conclusions. A news reporter, for instance, is not allowed to “editorialize” his stories – otherwise, it gets re written by the desk or junked altogether. He is also required to get both sides of the story (even though one is more readily available than the other).

Is this still the norm today? Indeed there seems to be a fine line separating journalism and advocacy. Some media personalities read the news in one program and then comment on them in another. I work with opinion columns and editorials, and at first blush it seems this is the easier deal. Op-ed people can say anything they want. Then again, before one can come to an enlightened stand, one has to look at the facts, from both sides, that would lead to the forming of a fair opinion. In this case, fact and opinion are not opposites. The latter is built upon the former – which is to say that opinion, even advocacy, is not bad so long as it has sound basis.

Nobody can claim to be truly objective. Every person has a built-in bias shaped by his culture, education, preferences and experiences. It shows in deciding what story to run, how it will be written, which set of people to interview. The best option is not to deny the bias but to temper it – with airtight research, objective methods and fair conclusions.

Corporate governance and "The Wall"

2011-10-10T08:13:00.003+08:00

I had posted the essay of this which was part in August. I used the last part for my MST column and it appeared last week, Oct 5, on page A5.

Media organizations in most free societies, while not controlled by government, are run by businesses. Indeed it is said that business is the new government. Journalism is a noble profession, a constant pursuit for truth giving priority to the public above all. But the reality is that journalists are employees, as well, and media companies are run as any corporation is: the bottom line (ultimate point) is the bottom line (profit). To deny this fact is to be naïve, and the harder it will be to exercise judgment on real-life dilemmas between the newsroom (editors and reporters) and the boardroom (directors and executives).

Corporate governance is an area deemed equally important as public governance. According to Knowledge Solutions, a publication of the Asian Development Bank, it meant little to most people until the mid-1990s. But today it is “broadly understood as the process by which the policies, strategies and operations of organizations are regulated, operated, and controlled by the board of directors to give them overall direction and control, and satisfy reasonable expectations of accountability and performance including to those outside them.”

Big words, but it all boils down to how a company is run, and done so responsibly. After all, while profit is a potent driving force in business activity, it is not, and should not be, the only force.

Here in the Philippines, there is the Institute of Corporate Directors, “a professional organization of, for, and by corporate directors and other reputational agents for corporate governance. It is a non-stock, not-for-profit organization working in close partnership with other business, government, and civil society organizations to promote and uphold the practice of good corporate governance. The ICD’s aim is to attend to the professional needs of corporate directors directly related to their serving in the board,” according to its Web site. The ICD accredits directors after making them undergo a five-day seminar on the principles and practices of corporate governance.

Rex Drilon, president of the ICD, says the aim is to achieve the “triple bottom line”—meaning doing good for people, planet and pesos. Companies should both be SBEs and SSEs. He quotes Andrew Savitz, a governance scholar, who says that a sustainable business enterprise (SBE) is one that creates profits for its shareholders while protecting the environment and improving the lives of those with whom it interacts. A sustainable social enterprise, on the other hand, is one that improves the lives of people while protecting the environment and fulfilling the economic needs of the owners.

The triple bottom line ideal is true for every corporation, whatever the industry. There are 11 corporate governance principles that apply: Independence, rights and duties, original powers to decide, loyalty, long-term viability, fairness, accountability, transparency, ethics, social responsibility and sustainability.

Drilon acknowledges that this is especially true for media, which is unique in that it is both a business AND a social enterprise. “It is a partnership that requires respect for each other’s needs,” he says. The business has to be profitable to be sustainable. On the other hand, the editors have to be independent (within pre-agreed ground rules) for the paper to be credible and therefore saleable. [Indeed] it is a delicate balance which needs the support of the two groups to work.”

It’s all good on paper. A newspaper, for instance, employs idealistic, conscientious, thorough journalists who observe the best ethical practices to deliver quality and intelligent information to its readers. In turn, and because of this, the newspaper is widely read by the public and is the medium of choice of advertisers. It thus turns a neat profit every year, which makes its owners happy, and which enables the enlightened, socially-oriented board of directors to grant respectable salaries to its employees, which in turn boosts their morale, which then makes them even more enthusiastic to do their jobs well.

Sadly, this is not always the case. What we have are media outfits owned by corporations or families that were somehow acquired to advance the political or economic interests of the owners or protect their other existing enterprises. Or, we have owners that are beholden to government officials or other commercial interests that somehow impose on the content of the material published or aired.

“The problem with such structures as interdepartmental marketing committees is that the newspeople are invariably outnumbered by business-side people, and they are also rhetorically outgunned because the business people are dealing in dollars and cents and the newspeople are dealing in a philosophical concept that, too often, business people either do not understand or do not support,” says Davis “Buzz” Merritt in an essay called “Breaching the Wall,” an excerpt from the book Knightfall: Knight Ridder and How the Erosion of Newspaper Journalism Is Putting Democracy At Risk

How, then, to balance profitability/commercial viability against the truth-seeking nature of journalism?

Drilon says: “The operative word is ‘with’ not ‘against’”. He talks about the “sustainability sweet spot” where margin meets mission, where profit meets the common good and where business interests meet stakeholders’ interest. Among the eleven principles, Drilon says the most pertinent to media companies’ boards are fairness, accountability and transparency.

Merritt, who has worked as a reporter, Washington correspondent, and editor for Knight Ridder newspapers for 42 years, talks about the “wall” between newspaper owners and the journalists that they employ. “If a newspaper was thought of, by its owners, as just another way to make money, the wall was an impediment; the enterprise’s financial success could be maximized only if the wall did not exist.”

But the newspaper’s credibility is its most precious asset, Merritt says. Fortunately, more managers are realizing this so that “editors and other newsroom employees now regularly sit on marketing committees with advertising and circulation managers. They share financial goals through their overlapping MBOs (management by objectives) and other compensation mechanisms.”

Thus far, corporations who have graduated fellows from the ICD and who choose to arm themselves with the guidance provided by the institute belong to Big Business. There may have been some interest in media among these groups, but all in the context of media being part of a conglomerate, a unit in the bigger whole, instead of a corporate entity on its own. The ICD has not yet conducted seminar specifically for directors of media companies.

That would be a good aim. The problem is whether most of the current crop of board members of media companies would even be willing to recognize that their positions are a little more different than their peers in other industries given the unique nature of the business of journalism.

On this, they have to be educated. The Wall need not be dismantled, because it cannot be, but those from either side should at least recognize the needs of the other, harmonize objectives and agree to work closely to resolve ethical issues. Then the organization will be a viable, socially responsible and sustainable and media corporation.

(The above essay is taken from a longer piece I wrote in August for a media ethics class under the masters program in journalism at Ateneo de Manila.)

***

In last week’s column, Connecting the dots, I quoted Filipino environmentalist Rodne Galicha as saying that Ms. Bernarditas Muller was eased out of the negotiations in Cancun. Mr. Galicha was actually referring to the Copenhagen talks in December 2009.

adellechua@gmail.com

Connecting the dots

2011-09-28T16:19:00.004+08:00

Rodne Galicha links extreme weather conditions to global warming.

(published 28 Sept 2011, MST, p. A5)

This week as we remember the horrors of Ondoy from two years ago, the Philippines is again battered by another storm — typhoon Pedring. I write this column amid howling winds and a power outage (I am hoping I can finish before my computer’s battery is drained). Classes in all levels as well as government work in the National Capital Region and other danger-stricken areas have been suspended.

Just two weeks ago, Filipino environmentalist Rodne Galicha from the Haribon Foundation and Friends of the Earth Philippines talked about extreme weather patterns in his presentation for 24 Hours of Reality, an event of the Climate Reality Project founded and chaired by former United States Vice President Al Gore. The event was broadcast online to a global audience of 2.6 million.

Galicha spoke on behalf of people from the Solomon Islands who, like Filipinos, are especially vulnerable to the effects of a warming globe.

(The recorded video presentation of Hour 9, Galicha’s presentation, and the 23 other hours may be accessed through www.climaterealityproject.org)

24 Hours of Reality sought to communicate the “full truth, scope, scale and impact of the climate crisis” to mobilize global citizens to do their part. It is possible, say the organizers – just as it was possible for the Berlin Wall to come down and for people of all skin colors to live side by side in America. Gore is worried that if we do not do something today, future generations, suffering from the mess we have created, would say: “What were you thinking? Why didn’t you connect the dots?”

Galicha started his presentation by connecting all the extreme weather patterns felt all over the world to the warming of the global temperature. It is nice to imagine a world free of floods, drought, floods, heat waves and other environmental disturbances, he said. But that world is not where we are. This is the reality: Extreme weather conditions occur like never before. Storms are bigger, pour harder and more frequently. Droughts are longer and deeper. You have places where the temperature goes up to more than 50 degrees Celsius. These wreak havoc not in any particular part of the world, but everywhere. Think “new normal” is a fancy, superfluous term? Think again.

The link has been established by scientists all over the world. Galicha launched into an uncomplicated explanation of the hydrological cycle that we were all taught in grade school science, the one where water evaporates and precipitates. “As the temperature increases, the oceans evaporate more moisture into the sky,” he said.

Galicha went on citing the works of scientists: With an additional 1 degree Celsius increase in temperature, the atmosphere’s capacity to hold water rises by seven percent. Right now, there is already 4 percent more water vapor over oceans than there was 30 years ago. This is why the extremes are getting even more… well, extreme.

***

Galicha acknowledged the existence and the arguments of climate skeptics and outright “deniers.” For example, some United States politicians say that solar activity—not the accumulation of excess carbon and methane in the atmosphere—was responsible for global warming. He then presented findings that there was no correlation between solar activity, which has remained relatively flat over the past centuries, and the increase in temperature.

And then, skeptics also say that scientists merely rely on computer models. Galicha then showed 12 separate and distinct sets of data—from ocean air temperature to glacier volume to stratospheric air temperature—that significantly showed that humans caused global warming. Worse, skeptics say that the warming trend has stopped. Galicha then showed four major independent records all saying that the warming has not stopped—and that, in fact, it is getting worse.

In the grand scheme of things, temperatures have risen and have fallen many times before. True, but this is the first time this has happened with human civilization present. What is also scary is that this is the first time it is happening so fast.

Deniers’ favorite tool is ridicule, Galicha pointed out. Their objective is to position global warming as theory, rather than fact. But ridicule is nothing compared to a collective global effort as seen in numerous initiatives. Galicha then identified various projects from all over the world, from the installation of solar panels to the adoption of wind technology.

Then again, more needs to be done. First, speak up: Don’t let deniers win the debates. Don’t allow them to get away with ridicule. Make your voice heard in traditional and social media. Second, deepen your commitment: Make choices that lessen the energy consumed. Consider the environmental impact of items you buy. Third, don’t give up: Lobby with leaders and decision makers to prod them into action. Let them know that you will support them only if they act responsibly towards the environment.

***

A few days after his presentation, Galicha gamely answered my follow-up questions regarding his presentation and the climate issue in general. Some Philippine businessmen seem cool to the idea of mitigation and decreased reliance on coal-fired power plants. The idea is, why mitigate when the Philippines is a low carbon emitter anyway?

He says that the climate crisis is global and the solution is global. “While it may be right not to focus on mitigation but rather on adaptation and resiliency, we should not forget the other side of mitigation which is a call for climate justice. With this, we are not only decreasing our emission contribution but also pressuring countries to decrease theirs.”

Galicha also warns against hypocrisy. How can we ask other countries to lower their emissions when “we continue opening up coal-fired power plants, stripping our mountains for minerals to let stored carbon/methane free and transport the ores to large countries (hence, continue emitting more carbon for processing and transportation), killing vegetation and cutting trees which absorb carbon dioxide, and converting forests and agricultural lands into large monoculture plantations?” Indeed, the “present administration is caught between the issues of economy and ecology.”

Finally, does he think that the Aquino administration is committed to addressing the effects of climate change? “The Climate Change Commission has been doing its job. President Aquino MUST sign National Climate Change Action Plan (NCCAP). However, commitment does not end with another commitment. The present administration should learn from the failures of the Arroyo administration especially when our negotiation experts like Bernaditas Muller were rejected to participate in the Copenhagen negotiations. I appreciate the openness of this government to the participation of the civil society movements such as Aksyon Klima and Philippine Movement for Climate Justice.”

There is no more room for denial. The reality is that the climate problem, its consequences and dilemmas, are here to stay. The question is how well—and how soon – we can stand up to the challenge.

adellechua@gmail.com

Documenting a work in progress: What I write, how and why

2011-09-22T03:01:00.002+08:00

I was in grade school when I started writing on a diary. Many of my classmates did, too. We enjoyed the fine paper, the fragrant stationery, the rush of the word “secret” and the habit of recounting the highlights of our days. Years passed, and my friends outgrew their chronicling, put down their pens and moved on to other fads. I kept on.

I started branching out into a “public” and a “private” sphere. In high school my public work consisted of my work in the newspaper, where I was features editor, associate editor, and eventually editor in chief. I wrote straight news stories, light features and student commentary. These gave me much satisfaction. I felt that I was part of something big – out to make a difference. At a young age, I had purpose.

On the other hand, the private sphere took on the form of an adolescent’s efforts to make sense of the world. Aside from growing pains and snatches of infatuation, I had very real struggles: I did not even know who my father was, my mother had been diagnosed with (and would later die of) colon cancer, and I wondered whether my grandmother could afford to send me to college. What lay ahead?

The private writings – where I poured out dreams, frustrations, joys, insecurities, little successes – helped me keep my sanity. For this I did not need an audience. My sentiments all sorted out, I was able to focus on my studies, snag a scholarship, and dream big.

Often, though, we find ourselves in situation we never quite imagined. A teenage pregnancy, subsequent early marriage and my decision to keep studying nonetheless presented newer, more formidable challenges. In university, where I majored in literature and had to write papers for my professors, I got complimented for my writing. I did not believe, though, that I had the luxury of joining an organization, hobnobbing with established and up-and-coming writers, honing my craft further. I was very mindful of my priorities: I had to rush home when the bell rings, take care of my babies and decide what to serve the husband for dinner.

In the meantime, I turned to my writing more than ever, for introspection. I had graduated from scented paper to the unassuming, unostentatious steno notebook which I carried everywhere. For many years, this enabled me to go from one day to the next.

The nine years after graduation were spent in professional wilderness. I must have been employed by more than a dozen entities in that period of time. I fancied myself a young urban professional, strutting on Ayala Avenue, but I did not quite feel I was at my best. I also spent some time in government, but I realized it was not the place for me, as well.

When I started working for the Manila Standard Today in 2006, I felt that I had come home. Not only because my late mother used to be a reporter for this newspaper (and as a child I tagged along to her Palace beat and the rickety newsroom), but because I realized that this was what I was born to do. Years passed, my children grew and many other things changed in my domestic sphere. Yet I knew one thing: I could never be divorced from writing.

Writing for a living, writing to live

Indeed for a living I edit four or five opinion columnists a day, six days a week. More importantly, I write editorials two times a week, and my own column every Wednesday.

I always stop and marvel at my good fortune of being able to do exactly what I love: writing about what goes on around us, in pursuit of a better place.

Beyond the social aspect, however, is the creative process. Persuasive writing is never easy. An editorial, for instance, has to be grounded on relevance, accuracy, logic, common sense – and some degree of literariness to make your work stand out from the others if you even hope to make an impact.

The hardest part is deciding what the editorial will be about. Shall I comment on the most recent appointment to a government office, a casual remark uttered by the President, the logical acrobatics of lawmakers? Once I have settled into the day’s subject, I use the Internet to scout for previous articles – from all angles – about the matter. I open a file and type away phrases and incomplete sentences per paragraph, forming the outline of my piece. I have to know first how I will begin, how I will end, and how I will get from one to the other. When I feel that my piece is well-structured and sound, I proceed to fleshing out the phrases into complete sentences. I make sure I have good transition and end on a hopeful, albeit sometimes critical, note.

The editorial does not contain my by-line. It is taken as the stand of the entire newspaper. My column, however, bears my name and picture. Since it appears only once a week, I take great pains planning my topics – sometimes varying from events I attend, advocacies I espouse, and occasionally, personal experiences and musings I decide to share.

Then again, perhaps the most rewarding writing I do is the kind that I do not have to do. There is no deadline; just urgency.

Times have definitely changed. I do not keep a hard-bound journal anymore. And while I have a word file on my computer to vent about the things that are bothering me, I generally turn to my blog --- www.adellechua.blogspot.com to chronicle even the most mundane of my daily concerns.

Like any parent, I like writing about my kids, their individual quirks and our time together. I like writing about my life as a single mother, who also happens to be a journalist and a graduate school student. Some of my entries are like snapshots: they actually only revel in a particular moment of self-possession. They are celebratory even when it is not quite clear what I am celebrating. It is with wide eyes that I wonder: what awaits me, us?

The process here is a lot less deliberate than what observe in my professional work. An idea simply dawns on me, wherever I am, whatever I am doing. I jot it down and let it stay in my head for just the right amount of time. I walk around feeling pregnant – like I am nursing something inside and to which I have to give birth in its own good time. When you write too soon, the material comes out raw. You wait too long and it begins to feel trite in your head, even before you have written a word. The enthusiasm fizzles.

I sit down and type away, feeling like a woman possessed. I just pound the keyboard as though I were being dictated to by some unknown entity from right within my guts. I feel I am just a medium. Could the words actually be mine?

And then I am done, and I am myself, the editor again. I proceed to smoothing out the edges, changing a bit here and there, making subtle changes that would make the piece more powerful, more effective.

The constant chronicler

Life is never still. Everything, even happiness, or especially happiness, is a moving target. I want a better nation where there are no women resorting to aborting their eighth or ninth child. No boys sniffing rugby on the streets and attacking jeepney or cab passengers. No politicians behaving badly. I want a society – as do many others, I am certain -- where basic services are delivered well, where citizens are productive and purposeful and where everybody whistles on his or her way to work.

At the same time, our personal lives are never in a state of perfection. I love where I am right now, and I love my life with my children even though it is not easy. I love my job. I think I have done well despite my earlier troubles. Still I have grander dreams, loftier aspirations. I have wishes yet unfulfilled.

As I inch closer to these ideals, I write –and chronicle my progress, our progress, even our occasional backslides. The resulting story will be a source of inspiration to others who are treading their own roads.

How will it all end? I don’t know. But I will tell it as it happens, and tell it well.

Masters of their fate

2011-09-19T01:56:00.006+08:00

published 21 Sept 2011, page A5, Manila Standard Today

Cayetano talks about adolescent reproductive health.

Defensor-Santiago tests her skills at uttering pick-up lines even as she talks about a serious matter.

photos were taken from the Facebook account of Mr. Ramon San Pascual, executive director of the Philippine Legislators' Committee on Population and Development Foundation, Inc.

The ability to make informed choices spells the difference between merely subsisting and truly living.

Senator Pia Cayetano momentarily waxes nostalgic about stepping on the stage of Malcolm Theater of the University of the Philippines College of Law, where she is an alumna. The last time she was there, she says, must have been her freshman year in law school when she was getting ready to perform for Malcolm Madness.

It's a different madness she riles against these days: the inability of some of her colleagues at the Senate to talk about such things as adolescent reproductive health with a level head, and without resorting to logical acrobatics. If she were on the Senate floor, she adds, her staff would probably be winking at her to tell her to tone down her language – not that she's being foulmouthed – lest she offend some sensibilities.

That morning, though, at a forum by the UP Institute of Human Rights, and surrounded by reproductive health advocates and college students from all over Metro Manila, Cayetano feels she is among mature, like-minded friends.

According to Cayetano, adolescent RH is primarily about enabling young people to have a positive self-image that in turn would help them make better choices. And no, talking about sensitive matters to the youth would not make them promiscuous. RH is as practical and as basic as answering a child’s questions, for instance: “Why is Mommy’s stomach getting big?” A few years later: “What are all these changes taking place in my body, and what do they mean?” To where do we look for answers: the Internet? The racy billboards along Edsa?

Nobody protests the fact that it is the parents’ responsibility to talk to their children. That is the ideal situation: an open communication line between parents and children. Unfortunately, most Filipino families do not operate like this. Some parents are ignorant, for lack of education – they simply do not know what to say. Some are irresponsible – some fathers, for instance, tell their sons that being able to “score” is the ultimate test of manhood. And then, there are some parents who are knowledgeable and responsible – but just too uncomfortable talking to their child about the intricacies of anatomy, much less the dynamics of intimate relationships.

And just as some parents are squeamish, so are some senators averse to anything about reproductive health, much less, God forbid, adolescent reproductive health. “If we talk as openly as we do right now, among you, people,” Cayetano continues, “most likely the bill will not be passed.”

Unwanted pregnancies, sexually-transmitted infections, as well as the resulting emotional, psychological and sociological effects of sexual activity on young people are very real occurrences. Most of these are rooted to lack of knowledge, not necessarily of birth-control methods but of what goes on in their bodies.

Unfortunately, many people do not seem ready to hear these concerns. Cayetano says that if you don’t recognize that they exist, or if you recognize that they do yet do nothing about it, then you are “blind, ignorant, and stupid.”

Ultimately, these kids will, in the future, engage in sex. The goal is for these young people to grow up enjoying healthy, long-term, satisfying physical and emotional relationships with a partner, likely in preparation for their own parenthood, in their own good time.

**

A few minutes later, Senator Miriam Defensor-Santiago walks towards the podium and starts talking about her life in UP, “where nobody picked me up.” This is only the first of many jokes she would crack that morning, engaging the young audience and sending them wildly cheering for the feisty lawmaker. I am sure that the list exists somewhere on the Internet.

One does not mind the abrupt shift into her prepared speech – on how reproductive health is a human right -- because what it contains is equally riveting, even as what it occasions are feelings of frustration behind the senator’s characteristic sarcastic humor. Her colleagues are living in a time warp, Santiago claims, and they refuse to acknowledge that some reasons are simply morally compelling. Hence, the arguments do not end.

The senator delves further into the much-questioned provision of the RH bill which deals with giving Filipinos access to family planning services. It does not force anybody to avail or not avail of these services; it just lays down the options on the table. What is so wrong with providing information? “Why do they want to keep their constituents ignorant?” she demands.

She likens the crusade to the struggles of Copernicus, who centuries ago challenged the prevailing belief advanced by leaders of the Catholic Church that the earth was the center of the solar system. Of course Church officials were not happy with Copernicus’ audacity. They made his life difficult. Interestingly enough, the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines now also stands in the way in delivering this most basic, most humane service to millions of poor women in the country. This, when they are not even the Church. It is the community of believers who comprise the church.

Why, even Benedict XVI, wrote when he was so much younger that “above the Pope stands one’s conscience.” Santiago wonders whether she can ever have the chance to remind the Pope of his earlier words.

And while Santiago began her talk by making the audience laugh, sustained their attention by her characteristically colorful language (“The sophistic procrastination of politicians are underwhelming!”, “What the ….?!” And “Pass the bill, you son of …..!”), she ends it on a sober note, by reciting the last lines of the poem “Invictus” by William Ernest Henley. We want our women, though poor and under-educated, to take control of their lives, to not just be swept away by circumstances, so that they could better perform their duties to themselves, their families, and society. Why make them believe they are not in control, when they can be -- if only they are empowered through knowledge?

The reproductive health bill has languished in the legislative mill for far too many congresses. Unfortunately, while the antics and tactics of opposing lawmakers and religious leaders are far too obvious, they have also been, enough to block the bill's passage. Let’s hope those who are in a position to change this pattern do so, and soon.

To some lawmakers, it might just be another bill. To the millions of underprivileged women, it spells the difference between merely subsisting and truly living.

adellechua@gmail.com

Love me, love my God

2011-09-13T22:16:00.010+08:00

(This is not to be taken as a commentary on the answer of my compatriot Shamcey Supsup to a question during the Miss Universe pageant. Along with the nation, I am proud of her. I can also imagine her state as she stood before millions with only a split second to come up with an answer.

Neither should this be taken as an "if it were me, instead" -- good heavens, no.

I just want to explore a point that I arrived at while pondering the day's events: the pageant and everything else.)

This essay is not about religion. This is about expectations.

Every woman dreams of an all-consuming love, one that defies constraint, common sense and reason. We have been programmed to think, or maybe we have done the programming ourselves, that we -- exquisite, beautiful, wise, extraordinary -- are deserving of that kind of love. Yes, that kind that is so powerful as to compel a man to discard the faith he was born into and embrace the faith of the woman he loves.

The other way around is just unthinkable.

The assumption, of course, is that the parties are of different religious persuasions, and that faith is a significant factor in both their lives. Because if one converts to the partner's faith from a position of faithlessness, or lukewarm-ness, then that would not be a sacrifice but a movement towards more comfortable ground. Hypocrisy, even.

Is it reasonable, then, to expect the man to renounce his faith and love the woman's God to prove his love for her?

Ideally, and consistent with our programmed expectations, yes. Would it not be nice to be with someone who loves you that much? Talk about a capital E for effort! Haba ng hair!

On the other hand, would you seriously want him to? In the first place, you came to appreciate the person for who he is, and his faith is a great part of who he is. If religion is so fundamental, then who would he be -- where would he be -- if you took it away from him and asked him to embrace another faith?

I would pretend for a moment that I was the one who was -- not vying for Miss Universe but -- haunted by a dilemma: Would I give up my religious persuasions for a man?

First, it would be a hypothetical question. Lightning has not quite struck.

Seriously, no. But that is only half my answer. I would also not expect him, much less demand of him, to do the same. It is very tempting to crave that kind of assurance. But that would be too much.

That he must love my God as well, if he happened to be molded otherwise, goes against the very notion of love being a union of two wholes. The most each party should ask is that the other respect his or her belief. Or non-belief. And still try to do good for the sake of doing good. And carve a beautiful, at least tolerable, life together, anyway.

A corruption-intolerant citizenry

2011-09-12T01:50:00.003+08:00

The fight against corruption is in vogue these days, with the assumption into power of President Benigno Aquino III. But thinking that this fight was only begun in earnest in June 2010, when Mr. Aquino was sworn in, believing that all anti-corruption efforts should focus on any one person, and thereafter resting on our laurels once that specific person is charged, convicted and put behind bars is dangerous.

Most certainly, fighting corruption is more than just a campaign slogan or a fashionable advocacy. It is not a feel-good activity for the self-righteous. It is rather a consistent, painstaking, inconvenient process that involves not one single, quixotic crusader, but an entire community -- and numerous communities all throughout the nation.

If one suspects one’s local leaders to have committed irregularity, after all, it is not enough to point fingers and cry “foul!” You have to have witnesses willing to come forward at the risk of their lives and livelihood. You also have to have access to documents – communication trails, statements of assets and liabilities, audit reports -- on which to base your accusations. You have to communicate your findings to the rest of the community and agitate your fellow citizens enough to take action.

But how can you fight when you don’t understand what these documents are supposed to contain? How do you respond to threats to your life? How can you have the mobility to convince others of your cause when everybody seems to think corruption is too entrenched, systemic and overwhelming?

“Pera Natin To! (It’s our money!)” cannot be written or uttered without an exclamation point. It is an assertion that the funds that circulate in the government belong to the people by virtue of the taxes we pay. As stakeholders, thus, we cannot just stand back and watch how this money is wasted or used to advance politicians’ personal interests.

“Pera Natin To!” is also the more popular name by which the Philippine Public Transparency Reporting Project is known.

It is a public literacy campaign – without which citizens, and members of the media who reach out to them, cannot ever hope to adequately monitor public officials’ fiscal behavior. How can one, after all, act on financial information if one cannot make sense of it?

The Web site of the program, www.transparencyreporting.net, offers a wealth of tools useful to ordinary citizens who wish to take a more active role in holding their officials accountable for the funds entrusted to them.

Aside from providing instructional materials on how public finances, systems and cycles work, the PPTRP, between November 2009 and August 2011, offered training modules aimed at journalists and ordinary citizens.

According to its handbook, it has generated over 100 unique reports and investigations, 29 blog entries and 46 project news reports. It has given financial literacy training to more than 390 journalists and transparency activists in 22 workshops and nine public roundtables held across the country. It has set up four local pilot citizens watchdog groups in Samar, Bohol, Kidapawan City and Misamis Occidental.

The challenge lies in following through these initiatives when local media and citizen groups as well as those in government are left to their own devices.

**

In the meantime, the project's time is up. The project – a collaboration among four media development organizations: the Institute for War and Peace Reporting, the Center for Community Journalism and Development, the Mindanao News and Information Cooperative Center and the National Union of Journalists of the Philippines, and funded by the USAID and the American Bar Association Rule of Law Initiative – was concluded August 23 with a final roundtable conference.

At the end-of-project conference, project director Alan Davis talked about how struck he was at seeing billboards and posters promoting politicians’ faces and names beside infrastructure projects. Davis, who is married to a Filipina, said he felt he was entitled to be upset alongside the rest of us. He stressed that corruption thrives when nobody is paying attention.

In an article in the project handbook, Davis concedes that structural change does not come easily. Thus, the “active and continual participation of citizens, both at the national and local level” is needed. He advocates a top-down AND bottom-up approach to fighting corruption: initiatives from the government, yes, but also from communities working their way up. The key to all this is public ownership – a sense of involvement of the public who pay the taxes, yes, but must also be literate in the area of public finance.

There were also several government officials and other prominent personalities present that day. Senate Blue Ribbon Committee Chairman Teofisto Guingona III stressed the importance of the passage of the freedom of information bill, which unfortunately does not seem to be a priority of the Executive. Interior and Local Government Secretary Jesse Robredo exhorted everybody to challenge established ways. Engineer Jun Lozada relived his days as a whistleblower, stressing that it is not only whoever comes forward who gets uprooted. The entire family is put at risk, their lives disrupted, their future made uncertain. Audit commissioner Heidi Mendoza, who advocates transparency especially in public bidding, highlighted that financial information must be mined for popularization and public consumption.

Finally, the new chairman of the Commission on Audit, Grace Pulido Tan, said that telling the truth and getting to the bottom of it always entails some form of inconvenience. This is why corruption is so endemic, so incorrigible – because people do not like being inconvenienced. Tan talked about the citizens’ participatory audit project that her agency was working on, similar in principle to the PPTRP’s main message. This is an interesting project that deserves to be written about once details become firmer.

Tan also said that these things are not, per se, to go after a single person. Rather, they are meant to improve the system, and make these things not a turf of the financially literate but an entire nation’s – a knowledge-empowered nation, specifically – business.

In the end, according to Mendoza, we have a stake in all this not because we are auditors, journalists, transparency advocates. It is for the fact that we are all Filipinos that we should care.

adellechua@gmail.com

Meeting the Mrs.

2011-09-10T22:25:00.005+08:00

Mrs. Phebe Santiago was our class adviser during our senior year in high school at Our Lady of Grace Academy, which has since been renamed St. Mary's Academy of Kalookan City. She also moderated the student council and taught our Filipino class. Because of this, we students addressed her as "Ginang Santiago." (Ginang is the Filipino word for Mrs).

She ably taught Rizal's second novel, El Filibusterismo, but more than that, she was always around with a piece of advice. In 1992, 19 years ago, I was a starry-eyed 16 year old who was shooting for top honors, running the school newspaper, caring for a cancer-stricken mother and having a first serious relationship. Ginang surely had a lot of things to say to me.

She even met J. and predicted that we would eventually get married, just because we shared similar facial features. She got that part right -- but missed how it would all end.

Fast forward to this afternoon, at Max's Restaurant at Trinoma. Finally our schedules jibed. Ginang was so pleased to see me and Bates, one of my best friends from waaay back, who became close to her as well through their work at the student council.

As always, "Ginoo" was on hand to drop his wife off our meeting place (he picked her up afterwards). Ginang and Ginoo behaved like boyfriend and girlfriend around each other. It was that way then, when they had been married only a few years, and it was that way now. She told us about the time his gallbladder was removed in November last year -- she had never prayed so hard. Indeed, this couple had not been blessed with a child, but they had been blessed with many other things that are just as priceless.

Ginang teaches at a public science high school these days, and is so proud of her students who are smart and determined even in the face of extreme poverty.

Bates and I updated her as well about the more recent things that had taken place in our lives. We then made plans to go visit Ginang at her Bulacan home sometime soon.

Ginang was certainly pleased to see Josh and Sophie, who picked me up from the restaurant. She said she just got older, but I disagree. It's a shame none of us remembered to take a picture of our reunion -- the first, we hope, of many.

A second look at suicide

2011-09-07T17:52:00.002+08:00

published 07 Sept 2011, MST

The Philippines has a relatively low suicide rate. According to the World Health Organization, an average of 2.5 males and 1.7 females commit suicide per 100,000 Philippine residents. (This, however, is 1993 data even as the latest compilation was done by the WHO in 2011 [http://www.who.int/mental_health/prevention/suicide_rates/en/])

A survey conducted by Gallup polls among 67 countries in 2005 and 2006 showed a tendency for religious countries to have low suicide rates. The Philippines ranked third in terms of religiosity (79 in the index) and 5th lowest in terms of suicide rates (2.1 per 100,000).

Despite the low rates, a 2011 study by Maria Theresa Renadiel and David Gunnell of the School of Social and Community Medicine, University of Bristol and May Antonette Lebanan-Dalida of the Department of Epidemiology and Biostatistics of UP Manila revealed that “there is likely to be under-reporting because of its non-acceptance by the Catholic Church and the associated stigma to the famly…As in other Catholic countries, a high proportion of suicide deaths are likely to be misclassified as injury of undetermined intent or accidents.”

The study, “Suicide in the Philippines: time trend analysis and literature review” (published on July 6, 2011 in www.biomedcentral.com) used data from the Philippine Health Statistics of the Department of Health between 1974 and 2005. It yielded the following conclusions:

• While suicide rates are low in the Philippines, they appear to have been increasing in recent years, particularly among males;

• Among females, the highest rates are seen in 15-24 year-olds;

• More women than men attempt suicide in the Philippines. But fatality is higher in males, in part due to males’ preference for more violent/lethal methods of suicide;

• Suicide attempts and mortality were generally higher in adolescents and young adults than in the older age groups…. This could be due to increased vulnerability of young people to social stressors.

Because of these findings, the authors underscore the importance of a focused suicide prevention program. “Improving data quality and better reporting of suicide deaths is likewise imperative to inform and valuate prevention strategies.”

Ultimately, it’s not about the numbers —how high or low the prevalence rates are. A life ended abruptly and willfully is a life lost especially to that person’s family, friends and colleagues.

That people take their own lives is always big news here, whether we are talking about a government official mired in scandal, a bank lawyer who is privy to the details of a controversy, an unemployed father of a big family or a jilted suitor.

The reasons may vary. Indeed, a major crisis may trigger the decision. It is accepted, though, that suicide is almost always rooted in depression—a medical condition that could be addressed by medication, by counseling and by having a strong support group.

Unfortunately in the Philippines, depression is either seen as synonymous to being crazy (and nobody would admit to being one) or dismissed as merely a condition where one “has the blues”.

Here lies the fundamental problem: no adequate steps can be taken to deal with depression of it is not acknowledged for what it is in the first place.

Part of why depression is spoken of in hushed tones, aside from the stigma, is that it calls forth dark, negative thoughts. This prompted the Natasha Goulbourn Foundation to launch Mindstrong, a campaign that focuses not on the tragedy of suicide and depression but rather on harnessing one’s mental resilience and cultivating a feeling of flourishing. These are antidotes to the downward spiral that depression brings. Essentially, the campaign helps make individuals more optimistic, mentally agile, self-aware, self-regulating. It enables one to focus on one’s strengths and build better connections with the people around him or her.

Mindstrong, like an earlier campaign, My Happy Hour, is an initiative not to treat depression but to prevent it by taking positive steps in small, regular doses.

***

Katrina Goulbourn Feist, a board member of the foundation, adds that the emergence of technology tools like mobile phones and the Internet makes young people vulnerable to bullying both in person and on cyberspace. “Of course, they don’t tell their parents about it. They keep it to themselves.” There is a need to help them cope with the pressures of adolescence and prevent the bullying incidents from pushing them to take drastic, irreversible action.

The foundation is also working with children of overseas Filipino workers. Physical separation from one or both of their parents no doubt take their toll on the children, despite the trade-off of financial gain.

“We know that depression and suicide are heavy subjects, but we need to bring these to the attention of the people,” says Jeannie Goulbourn, president and founder of the foundation. “This is why we are using a light approach to get more people to listen to us.”True enough, for the World Sucide Prevention Day slated this Thursday, September 9, a fun run and a concert will accompany a series of lectures, the launch of Mindstrong, and other activities.

The foundation is undertaking all these with the Department of Health, the Department of Social Welfare and Development, the local government of Quezon City, UP Diliman, Miriam College and Ateneo de Manila. Details of the September 9 events as well as the foundation’s work may be found at www.natashagoulbournfoundation.org.

adellechua@gmail.com

Day at the DFA

2011-09-06T05:25:00.008+08:00

The gate is open for those who have set their appointments online.

I had foolishly thought, though, that I could just stroll over to a booth at 1130 sharp and get everything done by 12. This was taken a few minutes before 11. Those standing in line belong to the first row of the 11am lot. In front of me are all the others given 1130 slots. We were a big group.

Once inside, more lining up. There were rows of back to back seats and the line snaked forward as counters opened up. For about 20 minutes at high noon, though, the line stalled -- and only two of the 23 counters were manned. I guess the employees decided to take lunch at the same time. This would have been unbearable if they had a leisurely meal. But they were back to their posts soon, though their names had to be called out. After that, the line moved briskly again.

I was directed to counter 19. As I handed over my documents, I snapped this photo, much to the surprise of Miss Sagum, my processor. The transaction was brief and methodical. The only questions she asked me were: What newspaper I worked for, and what I was going to use the photo for.

The encoding process. I was assigned to booth 28. I checked the accuracy of the encoded information, took off my earrings, bared my ears and smiled for the camera. This was the second-to-the-last step. After this, I arranged for the delivery of my new passport to my Makati office. I was done by 1:20.

My passport is expiring in February so yesterday I went to the Department of Foreign Affairs to renew it.

I had high expectations of the new system. They had moved the passport-processing unit from the dingy basketball court-side street somewhere in Libertad to a new, smarter looking building along Macapagal Boulevard. I also took advantage of the online appointment setting facility. I logged on early last month and had chosen September 5, 1130 am from among a few other slots. I printed out the bar-coded application form.

I targeted being in the building one hour before my appointment. My form said I was scheduled for 1130-12. I thought that was cast in stone so I even attempted to set a lunch date with a friend for 1230. I would be wrong, of course. Contrary to my notions, I still had to do some waiting. But it was not too bad -- at least not compared to the three previous times (1995, 2001 and 2007) when I had to do the same thing.

Despite the sheer number of applicants (106,000 a month), what stood out was the DFA's EFFORT to put some order to a previously chaotic, and for some, traumatic, experience, and to recognize that times -- and people's needs -- are changing.

This is important not only for the DFA but for all government offices if they are serious about wanting to eliminate fixers and/or those who feel entitled to special privileges. Processes should be improved so that more people become willing to go through them themselves without exception.

The experience was not a holiday, to be sure, but I felt more of a citizen than ever.

Far East first

2011-09-01T17:58:00.008+08:00

Above is a photo of the building where I had my first full-time job, 14 long years ago. The cab I was in earlier stopped in front of it.

It goes by a different name now, but at that time it was known as the Far East Bank Center -- brand new when I started working there in May 1997. I was assigned to the public relations unit of the Corporate Affairs Department. We occupied the 24th floor.

I was sent to college by the scholarship foundation of the bank's then-CEO, Mr. Octavio Espiritu (no, I do not have a business degree. It's the university that pairs scholars up with the benefactors) and when I paid him a visit after graduation, he asked me if I had a job already. At that time, I was only working part time writing puppet scripts for Batibot, the kids' show, the counterpart of Sesame Street. When I said no, he asked if I wanted to work at Far East. I jumped at the chance.

My first main responsibility was to cut newspaper -- text or photo -- clippings about the bank. Eventually I was asked to write an occasional press release and two articles. I remember these very clearly: one was about scholars sent to school by the bank's foundation, the other was a feature on General Santos City where the bank had just inaugurated a new branch. No, I did not go to Mindanao. I researched.

Those were pre-MRT days. Most days, I took the bus that plied Edsa, straight from Valenzuela to Makati. The trip took me anywhere between two and three hours. One way.

How I delighted in using an ATM for the first time! I started at the lowest administrative staff level, and my gross salary was no more than P5,000 per month. I enjoyed earning a regular income, though, however small, and I remember buying siopao for my late Uncle Edwin on my first payday. On my second payday, I splurged on a trip to Enchanted Kingdom. Even in those days, a little over two thousand pesos every payday did not take one far.

Having to wear high-heeled shoes and make up every day also felt novel to me. The sight of the Makati skyline at night simply took my breath away.

But I soon became restless and resigned after only two months. Many years later, Far East was bought by BPI, a much bigger bank. I had lost touch with even Ate Luchi, Mr. Espiritu's longtime executive secretary, even as my first immediate boss, Tita Chell Jacob, is a friend on Facebook.

And I had graduated from cutting newspapers and filing the clippings to actually writing material published in a broad sheet at least three times a week.

It is good to be reminded that everybody starts somewhere.

It could be anybody

2011-08-30T16:38:00.003+08:00

The increase in the number of HIV-positive Filipinos is exponential.

Gil has been commissioned by the Department of Health to make a documentary on the rising cases of HIV and AIDS in the Philippines. But his lead, Heidi, is reluctant to talk about the facts and circumstances surrounding her condition. In front of the camera, the widowed, AIDS-stricken Heidi only cries and curses at her predicament. As the deadline draws near, the pressure on Gil builds.

The former) Health Secretary Esperanza Cabral comes to Gil’s rescue. She gives him two more potential subjects. Ivy is a call center agent – beautiful, educated, promising. Vanessa is a gay stand-up comedian. Gil tries to pry the stories out of these subjects.

Ivy insists that she never engages in risky sexual behavior – except for one night during her graduation party when she blacked out and did not know what could have happened.

Vanessa, on the other hand, continues to go out with any man who is willing. His parents know about his condition and gives him their full support and unconditional love. Vanessa lives his life as he would if he were not sick, infecting all others who become intimate with him.

Soon, Ivy learns what actually happened on that fateful night. A classmate seasoned their drinks with drugs. She went upstairs to sleep, but her classmate’s friend Rudy, a known drug user and dealer, followed her to the room. She remembers now. She looks for Rudy and learns he has died. Ivy despairs, realizing her inevitable ending, and backs out of the documentary deal.

Vanessa is tracked by the men who have had sex with him; they have realized that he had given them the virus. They beat him up and leave him for dead. His parents tell Gil that he cannot anymore continue with the documentary.

Heidi dies and leaves behind her son, who has been born with the virus.

Gil is desperate. The three subjects who have earlier agreed to talk to him and tell their stories to the public are now all gone. In the meantime, the deadline looms...and he, himself – a carefree, handsome young director who occasionally engages in risky sexual behavior – is HIV positive.

In the end, Heidi’s son agrees to go through with the interviews for the documentary. Ivy wants to continue telling her story. And while Vanessa has shied away, one more reluctant subject – Virgilio, or Gil himself – decides to participate in the documentary to tell his story.

Such is the plot of the movie HIV featuring actor and model Jake Cuenca, Maria Isabel Lopez, Iza Calzado and IC Mendoza. The advocacy film was put together by Exogain Productions and was directed by Neal Tan. Screenplay was by Wanggo Gallaga – a writer/ editor who had come out several years ago as HIV-positive himself. Gallaga is now an advocate of HIV/AIDS prevention through education.

**

It would not be fair to evaluate the movie purely for its technical aspects. The message is far stronger and more urgent, especially in the light of present developments in the fight against HIV and AIDS. While the rest of the world has started containing the disease, here in the Philippines, the numbers are getting more alarming.

(This is also highlighted by the number of HIV-infected blood donated to the Health Department as communities deal with dengue.)

According to Philippine National AIDS Council (www.pnac.org.ph), there are now 7,235 cases of HIV infections in the country since the first case was recorded in 1984.
The rate of increase has been described as "exponential" by an official of the UNAIDS. Country coordinator Teresita Marie Bagasao said, in a report by Channel News Asia published in the PNAC site, that in 2007, the Philippines reported one new infection every other day. By end-2009 and towards 2010, the country reported one to two infections per day.

Right now, the country is seeing six new infections per day.

For the month of July 2011, 204 new HIV cases were recorded in the country, representing a 56 percent increase from the 131 recorded in July 2010. Ninety percent of these new cases were males, and 63 percent belonged to the 20-29-year-old age group. Ninety-five percent contracted the virus through unprotected sexual contact. Twenty percent were overseas Filipino workers. These numbers tell a compelling story about which segments of the population are at great risk, whether by choice or circumstance.

There is no known cure for the disease but anti-retroviral drugs – which must be taken every day without fail – enable people living with AIDS to continue leading normal lives. The problem is that the medicine costs anywhere between P1,500 to P2,000 a day (says PNAC executive director Ferchito Avelino in April last year, when I interviewed him for "Dealing with HIV and AIDS," published April 5, 2010 in this space). More than 800 Filipinos living with AIDS get the medicine for free from international donors like The Global Fund. But the subsidy is not limitless. It's a real long-term problem.

And while the government is hard pressed to find new sources of funding to support those already found positive for the virus, parallel efforts are also made to stem the rise of new infections.

Surprisingly, in this day and age, there remain many misconceptions about HIV and AIDS. Most dangerous perhaps is the thinking that "it cannot happen to me" or that it is a misfortune that only befalls the promiscuous. Like Gil or even Ivy in the story, many people believe that they are beyond its reach.

And even if they somehow mustered the courage to get themselves tested, they cannot bear the thought of coming out to a harsh, judgmental world.

HIV the movie is a work of fiction and played out by actors. HIV the virus is all too real. The threat is not going to go away if we pretend it is not there. In fact, the more we don't talk about it, the bigger the menace it poses to all of us.

adellechua@gmail.com

Challenges to accountability, intellectual honesty and governance

2011-08-24T23:07:00.006+08:00

Following is my final paper for my media ethics class (MA Journ, Ateneo) under Chay Hofilena. We were asked to identify the three biggest ethical challenges to the practice of journalism in the future.

There are many ethical challenges to journalism but the list becomes more defined when one narrows it down to ethical challenges in the future.

We are now talking about things we cannot fully grasp just yet, or trends we are only seeing the beginning of.

This paper is an aggregation of the inputs obtained from the readings and discussions, both on-campus and online, from Media Ethics class as well as practical instances from the personalities interviewed, the author’s observations and supplemental research.

Challenge 1: Accountability amid a culture of anonymity

Lawyer and opinion columnist Emil Jurado, 84, strolls into the coffee shop at the ground floor of his condominium unit in Makati. He waves as he sees me writing something on my laptop. As I turn my unit off and put it away to begin our interview, he admits he knows nothing about computers. (“I attended three courses and they all gave up on me! I don’t even know how to text!”) Indeed, he sends his typewritten columns to the Manila Standard Today by having his driver deliver the hard copy. An encoder transcribes it in MS Word format so it can be edited.

Small wonder, then, that the self-described “Jurassic, computer-illiterate journalist”… “who has been there and done that” cites the advent of technology as the main ethical challenge to journalism today and in the future. He talks about social networking sites Facebook and Twitter as well as blog sites -- even as one wonders whether he has even seen such home pages, much less knows how to get there.

Over the years, Mr. Jurado has gone full circle in media. He has “walked the corridors of power,” having covered one administration after another beginning the time of President Elpidio Quirino. Jurado started out as an editor of the Mindanao Cross in Cotabato City in the 1950s. He was a reporter and later business editor of the Philippines Herald. He founded the Kapisanan ng mga Brodkaster ng Pilipinas in the 1970s. On the day Martial Law was declared, he and some other journalists founded the 365 Club, a loose gathering of mediamen at the coffee shop of the Hotel Intercon where they meet every day, rain or shine. They still do. He served as the editorial board chairman of the Manila Standard upon its inception in 1987. He has been writing columns, since then.

His column is still published, Tuesdays to Fridays, on page A5 of the Standard.
Jurado recalls how straightforward everything was in his time. “We took our journalists’ oath seriously. We gave emphasis to the five Ws, the basics. Our editors were very strict in this. When you get one side of the story, you have to be fair and balanced and try also to get the other side. That, of course, is not always possible as we had deadlines. But that’s how it went.”

Now it’s a different jungle. The globalization of media has started bringing down borders. This has rendered the MTRCB useless, for instance, because cable channels are out of its jurisdiction anyway. Local news networks get input from CNN, BBC and other big networks because local audiences also demand that they be informed of what goes on in other countries, not only in their own. If you lack this content, the public can just as easily shift to your competitor in the click of a button.

This is why Jurado believes local media networks should open up to foreign investors. To do that, the Constitution, at least its economic provisions, should be amended. “We need to adjust to the changing times, or else we get left behind. Twenty years from now, when I am no longer around – you, Adelle, will still be – you will remember me as you say ‘Atty. Jurado was right, after all!’”

Not that anybody would dare say the contrary.

Jurado carries with him the notoriety – or distinction, if you wish – of having been sued 24 times in the course of his journalistic life. “Four times I apologized because I really had my facts wrong. Two cases managed to reach the courts, but they were eventually dismissed. The rest did not make it to court.”

But perhaps what Jurado is most known for is the landmark In Re Emil Jurado1 where he was cited in contempt of the Supreme Court (“I was the only newspaperman who dared take on the gods of Mount Olympus [how he describes the associate justices of the Supreme Court in his columns]) for writing in his column that several justices of the Supreme Court accepted bribes from PLDT officials in return for a favorable ruling in a pending case. The justices fined Jurado P1,000, saying:

“Jurado's actuations, in the context in which they were done, demonstrate gross irresponsibility, and indifference to factual accuracy and the injury that he might cause to the name and reputation of those of whom he wrote. They constitute contempt of court, directly tending as they do to degrade or abase the administration of justice and the judges engaged in that function. By doing them, he has placed himself beyond the circle of reputable, decent and responsible journalists who live by their Code or the ‘Golden Rule’ and who strive, at all times, to maintain the prestige and nobility of their calling.”

Jurado has by no means mellowed. He claims then-candidate Benigno Aquino III refused to attend a journalist group’s forum “because Emil Jurado is there.” He maintains that libel should not be de-criminalized. “If you can dish it out, you should be able to take it” is his mantra.

Of course everybody knows where to look and how to seek redress if he or she is offended. Writers like Jurado belong to traditional media. We know exactly where he is and how he could be reached, how he can be pursued. That’s not always the case in cyberspace.

Terrell Ward Bynum of Southern Connecticut State University, in his paper called “Anonymity on the Internet and Ethical Accountability,” says it is tempting “to argue that anonymity on the Internet should be banned – that the identity of anyone on the Net should always be immediately available wherever he or she goes in cyberspace.”

But there is a problem: this view goes against our right to privacy. Bynum thus proposes that there be “trusted third parties – agents to whom one entrusts private information on condition that it be held in confidence.”2

The assumption however is that trusted third parties have the best interests of the information-consuming public in mind. We know this is not the case, as there are people whose sole objective is to misinform, mislead and tarnish others’ reputations.
And since the Internet provides the platform for their anonymity, they flourish. After all, it is so easy to create bogus Web sites, phony blogs and assume fake identities.

Then again, maybe Jurado is being too generous, according the title “journalist” to anybody who dares publish content on the Internet, whatever the quality. Still, that he feels threatened is valid. Not everybody knows you should not believe everything you see on the Web. And in a world where everybody has an agenda, the threat of them getting away with anything is all too real.

Challenge 2: “Something borrowed”

The public assumes that members of the media, in delivering the news, are thorough in gathering their information, skillful in processing and integrating them into something meaningful, and creative in presenting them to the people. What is demanded of us, after all, is to make the important interesting, and to make the interesting relevant. It goes without saying that the work we claim as ours is really ours, and the things we said happened really did occur.

The assumption is that there is no dearth of important things happening all around us every day, and journalists must feel privileged to even write about these things. In reality, there are days when news is slow, when a source utters unremarkable words – but the story has to be filed at five o’clock, anyway. What to do?

The movie Shattered Glass talks about the twentysomething New Republic reporter Stephen Glass who was found to have fabricated his stories in varying degrees. He was shown as a charismatic, enterprising young journalist who has a knack for stumbling into the most interesting events, or aspects of events. He reported on a conference for hackers, for instance, or a gathering of young Republicans that was supposedly marked by un-Republican conduct (drugs, booze, prostitutes). He manufactured quotes, sources, events, even buildings, laws and corporations and kept on doing so as he was being investigated, to cover up previous lies.

It soon emerged that Glass’ affliction was not, per se, journalistic, but behavioral.

A February 2009 article written by Rebecca Leung for 60 minutes, based on an
interview with Glass himself years after the controversy, shows he has since moved on. “With that, the journalistic career of Stephen Glass ended. He dropped out of sight and spent much of the past five years in therapy, trying to start over. He has earned a law degree from Georgetown University and written a book for a six-figure advance. This time, it's clearly labeled fiction: A novel called ‘The Fabulist’ about a young Washington reporter who is a pathological liar.”3

Then again, Glass was creating fiction, inventing something from his head. In the age of Internet, and with the sheer number of material online, it is so much more common to lift passages from different sources. This is allowed, of course, so long as there is attribution. But what if there is no attribution?

Malcolm Gladwell is a reporter for the New Yorker and has published four bestsellers of nonfiction. In 1994, he wrote an article called “Something borrowed” for the magazine where he talked about plagiarism and copyright.4 He made use of several examples, such as the feeling of violation felt by one Dorothy Lewis whose personality and circumstances were used by playwright Bryony Lavery as material for a play that was eventually staged in Broadway. The depiction was so close that people who saw the play and knew the woman recognized her right away. Upon further investigation, Gladwell discovered the he himself had been “plagiarized” – that is, words and phrases he used in a published news story about the killings were also used in the play.

But while Lewis felt angry, Gladwell did not. “On some level, I considered Lavery’s borrowing to be a compliment.” And in response to Lavery’s profuse apologies for her carelessness (she thought it was okay to use his words), Gladwell makes a distinction: “Old words in the service of a new idea aren’t the problem. What inhibits creativity is new words in the service of an old idea.” After all, Lavery used his work to create an entirely new idea, only building upon his. “Intellectual-property doctrine isn’t a straightforward application of the ethical principle ‘Thou shalt not steal. At its core is the notion that there are certain situations where you can steal.’”

I do not begrudge Gladwell for feeling okay with this. But that is his prerogative, and perhaps the distinction that he offers makes all the difference. This I think is the challenge, that some people may take upon themselves the liberty to determine which may or may not be “lifted” from another’s work.

Sometimes it arises out of plain carelessness, as what Lavery claims. Sometimes, however, the taking is deliberate – a refusal to do the work, the failure to provide some value added, and worse, the deception in taking credit for someone else’s output.

There now exist technology tools to help us determine whether a work had been taken from somebody else. But that happens only when we doubt and question. If the receiver of information takes a “stolen” work and passes it off as his own, and everybody assumes he has been intellectually honest, then the deception has been consummated, whether or somebody makes the effort to research and prove that the author has not been completely honest.

True, humankind has built ideas from existing ideas since time immemorial. This is why there is progress. But nobody has the right to pass off one’s idea as his own. All we have to do is to attribute. What is so grossly difficult with that?

Challenge 3: Governance and the Wall

Media organizations in most free societies, while not controlled by government, are run by businesses. Indeed it is said that business is the new government. Journalism is a noble profession, a constant pursuit for truth giving priority to the public above all. But the reality is that journalists are employees, as well, and media companies are run as any corporation is: the bottom line (ultimate point) is the bottom line (profit). To deny this fact is to be naïve, and the harder it will be to exercise judgment on real life dilemmas between the newsroom (editors and reporters) and the boardroom (directors and executives).

Corporate governance is an area deemed equally important as public governance. According to Knowledge Solutions, a publication of the Asian Development Bank, it meant little to most people until the mid-1990s. But today it is “broadly understood as the process by which the policies, strategies and operations of organizations are regulated, operated, and controlled by the board of directors to give them overall direction and control, and satisfy reasonable expectations of accountability and performance including to those outside them.”5

Big words, but it all boils down to how a company is run, and done so responsibly. After all, while profit is a potent driving force in business activity, it is not, and should not be, the only force.

Here in the Philippines, there is the Institute of Corporate Directors, “a professional organization of, for, and by corporate directors and other reputational agents for corporate governance. It is a non-stock, not-for-profit organization working in close partnership with other business, government, and civil society organizations to promote and uphold the practice of good corporate governance. The ICD’s aim is to attend to the professional needs of corporate directors directly related to their serving in the board.” 6 The ICD accredits directors after making them undergo a five-day seminar on the principles and practices of corporate governance.

Rex Drilon, president of the ICD, says the aim is to achieve the “triple bottom line” – meaning doing good for people, planet and pesos. Companies should both be SBEs and SSEs. He quotes Andrew Savitz, a governance scholar, who says that a sustainable business enterprise (SBE) is one that creates profits for its shareholders while protecting the environment and improving the lives of those with whom it interacts.

He sums this up as

SBE = Pesos+People+Planet

On the other hand, Drilon says that a sustainable social enterprise (SSE) is one that improves the lives of people while protecting the environment and fulfilling the economic needs of the owners.

SSE = People+Planet+Pesos

The triple bottom line ideal is true for every corporation, whatever the industry. There are 11 corporate governance principles that apply: Independence, rights and duties, original powers to decide, loyalty, long-term viability, fairness, accountability, transparency, ethics, social responsibility and sustainability. 7

But Drilon acknowledges that this is especially true for media, which is unique in that it is both a business AND a social enterprise. “It is a partnership that requires respect for each other’s needs,” he says. The business has to be profitable to be sustainable. On the other hand, the editors have to be independent (within pre-agreed ground rules) for the paper to be credible and therefore saleable. [Indeed] it is a delicate balance which needs the support of the two groups to work.”

It’s all good on paper. A newspaper, for instance, employs idealistic, conscientious, thorough journalists who observe the best ethical practices to deliver quality and intelligent information to its readers. In turn, and because of this, the newspaper is widely read by the public and is the medium of choice of advertisers. It thus turns a neat profit every year, which makes its owners happy, and which enables the enlightened, socially-oriented board of directors to grant respectable salaries to its employees, which in turn boosts their morale, which then makes them even more enthusiastic to do their jobs well.

Sadly, this is not always the case. What we have are media outfits owned by corporations or families that were somehow acquired to advance the interests of the owners or protect their other existing enterprises. Or, we have owners that are beholden to government officials or other commercial interests that somehow impose on the content of the material published or aired.

“The problem with such structures as interdepartmental marketing committees is that the newspeople are invariably outnumbered by business-side people, and they are also rhetorically outgunned because the business people are dealing in dollars and cents and the newspeople are dealing in a philosophical concept that, too often, business people either do not understand or do not support,” says Davis “Buzz” Merritt in an essay called “Breaching the Wall,”8, an excerpt from the book Knightfall: Knight Ridder and How the Erosion of Newspaper Journalism Is Putting Democracy At Risk

How, then, to balance profitability/commercial viability against truth seeking nature of journalism?

Drilon says: “The operative word is ‘with’ not ‘against’”. He talks about the “sustainability sweet spot” where margin meets mission, where profit meets the common good and where business interests meet stakeholders’ interest. Among the eleven principles, Drilon says the most pertinent to media companies’ boards are fairness, accountability and transparency.

Merritt, who has worked as a reporter, Washington correspondent, and editor for Knight and Knight Ridder newspapers for 42 years, talks about the “wall” between newspaper owners and the journalists that they employ. “If a newspaper was thought of, by its owners, as just another way to make money, the wall was an impediment; the enterprise's financial success could be maximized only if the wall did not exist.”

But the newspaper’s credibility is its most precious asset, Merritt says. Fortunately, more managers are realizing this so that “editors and other newsroom employees now regularly sit on marketing committees with advertising and circulation managers. They share financial goals through their overlapping MBOs (management by objectives) and other compensation mechanisms.”

This method hews closely with discourse ethics9 – without adhering to any single, pre-determined principle, the stakeholders in a corporation: board of directors, executives, advertising managers, employees, reporters, editors.

Thus far, corporations who have graduated fellows from the ICD and who choose to arm themselves with the guidance provided by the institute belong to Big Business, as shown in the ICD Web site. There may have been some interest in media among these groups, but all in the context of media being part of a conglomerate, a unit in the bigger whole, instead of a corporate entity on its own. The ICD has not yet conducted seminar specifically for directors of media companies.

That would be a good aim. The problem is whether most of the current crop of board members of media companies would even be willing to recognize that their positions are a little more different than their peers in other industries given the unique nature of the business of journalism.

On this, they have to be educated. The Wall need not be dismantled, because it cannot be, but those from either side should at least recognize the needs of the other, harmonize objectives and agree to work closely to resolve ethical issues. Then the organization will be a viable, socially responsible and sustainable and media corporation.

Conclusion

Journalism as a profession will crumble without credibility. But there would be no credibility if players in the industry did not practice ethical standards -- even as such standards are a function of culture, economic level, and technological sophistication.

Nonetheless, some basic things must be universal. The three challenges discussed above are true for all societies. Everyone can relate to them, some more strongly than others. What they present are real-life questions that journalists today and in the future may find themselves faced with.

There are no easy, ready-made answers, but there are methods to arrive at sensible responses to these questions. It is up to us to agree -- not on answers, but -- to use these methods to ensure that our brand of journalism remains close to its primary purpose: to give citizens the information they need to be free and self-governing.

"She had it coming"

2011-08-23T15:58:00.004+08:00

Nafissatou Diallo, who accuses a former IMF chief of rape, is deemed not credible. (photo c/o The Huffington Post)

Embracing "sluthood" -- these women insist they should be able to dress as they please and not worry about safety. (photo c/o The Guardian)

Should a woman's shattered credibility or provocative clothing negate her claims of rape?

As the world awaits what happens in Libya and seeks diversion from gloomy predictions about the global economy, it preoccupies itself with the most recent development in the Dominique Strauss-Kahn saga. This week, prosecutors from the Manhattan District Attorney's office moved to drop rape charges against the former chief of the International Monetary Fund.

Strauss-Kahn was arrested from his first-class seat at the JFK airport in New York in May, barely hours after he alllegedly raped a Sofitel New York employee inside his suite. He did not deny the sexual encounter but insisted that what had happened was consensual.

The accuser, Guinean Nafissatou Diallo, certainly gives the term “Maid in Manhattan” a new twist. Years ago, there was a romantic comedy starring Jennifer Lopez and Ralph Fiennes. She is a hotel housekeeper; he a senatorial candidate. They fall in love amid initial confusion. It turns out well in the end – Fiennes gets the girl and wins the elections besides while Lopez rises from her working-class, immigrant roots to become a hotel manager.

But that's Hollywood. There seems to be no happy ending in sight for Diallo, 33, whose credibility the prosecutors doubt themselves. They say she has lied about being gang-raped by soldiers in her native country. She has also lied about not wanting to make money out of the incident.

“If we do not believe her beyond a reasonable doubt,” state lawyers tell The New York Times, “we cannot ask a jury to do so.” In the meantime, Diallo's impassioned lawyer insists justice has been denied to his client.

This reminds us of another Hollywood movie from years back, "The Accused," starring Jodie Foster. Foster's character was a happy-go-lucky girl who gets gang raped in a bar. But because of her "easy" reputation, her actuations before the actual assault, even the way she talks and dresses, it is she, the accuser, who finds herself on trial. Who's to believe that what happened was against her will?

On one hand, and owing to the intimate nature of the crime, the strength of a rape case does hinge on the credibility of the accuser. This is especially difficult for Diallo, who finds herself against a very powerful man. Strauss Kahn is perceived as an able chief of the IMF, a former future president of France. She is a housekeeper -- what is the weight of her word against his? On what should prosecuters base their decision to take her word except her previous conduct? And if that previous conduct does not look good, should she be allowed then to ruin a man's reputation (not that it was Strauss-Kahn's first time to be accused of anything)?

On the other hand, should not rape stand on its own? Regardless of how a woman dresses, talks or walks, whether she smokes or drinks acohol, and whether or not she has lied in the past, it could be that she really was raped, i.e., forced to engage in sex against her will at that particular instant. In such case, there must be justice.

Rape is not so much about sex but assertion of power. One is decidedly physically stronger, more influential, and richer than the other. He has the audacity to impose his will on her – and then think he can actually get away with it.

**

In January this year, a police officer in Toronto named Michael Sanguinetti said at a forum that in order for women to remain safe, they should “avoid dressing like sluts.”

This thoughtless remark has sparked protests in Canada and in other countries. The first Slutwalk took place in April. Thousands of women, dressed provocatively, protested the fact that they had to dress in a certain way in order to be respected or to stay safe. They said that the way a woman dresses should not determine people’s response to them. Much less should their appearance explain or even excuse rape.

Sonya Barnett, founder of the Slutwalk movement, tells The Toronto Observer that they want to re-define “slut” as someone who is in control of [her] own sexuality.
“We really want to push the idea that nobody is worthy of any kind of violence," she says. The group claims that Slutwalks have been the most successful feminist action of the past 20 years.

On one hand, it’s a feminist thing. Of course women should be able to wear what they want without being treated like sex objects. Why should we worry about how our outfits influence the thoughts and actions of the opposite sex and their response to us? That is their problem, not ours. Nothing excuses violence, and victims should never be blamed for what befell them.

On the other hand, there is one reality we must live with -- and it is that men can get irrational when they are visually stimulated. They cannot help it; that’s just the way they are. It also does not mean that they should not try to rise above this tendency, or that they are not struggling to.

In May 2009, in a column called "Incentives to being a victim," I cited the study of California psychologist Ofer Zur who published an article called "The psychology of victimhood: Rethinking 'Don't blame the victim'". We respond to such acts of violence in either two ways: blaming the victim or totally absolving her. Zur says both extremes perpetrate and exacerbate the abusive environment. Neither really helps the victim at all.

Zur adds: “alleviating all women and any victim from any and all responsibility to predict, prevent or even unconsciously invite abuse is to reduce them to helpless incapable creatures and in fact re-victimizes them.” I agree.

I do not demand that the exact same options available to men (like dressing however way they want) be made to women as well. That would be simplistic and impractical. The two sexes are fundamentally differently wired, and coexisting means taking into account the strengths – and the vulnerabilities - of each, so that no one ends up taking advantage of the other.

adellechua@gmail.com

Hammy again, gone again

2011-08-23T00:24:00.009+08:00

Elmo holds Hammy 2 up against a backdrop of faux daisies.

All he's got are these guys -- for now.

For his ninth birthday last month, all Elmo asked for was a pair of hamsters from the nearby pet store -- with a blue cage, a wheel for them to play on, some hamster food and a bag of kusot to serve as base for the floor of the cage.

We did not even have to go out to lunch or dinner at some fancy restaurant, he said. I did not even have to get him a new shirt. He would be very happy with the hamsters.

Elmo believed he was ready to assume responsibility for pets again. In May 2010, I got him a lone hamster, Hammy, we put it in a basket, and one day it was gone.

He'd be better, he vowed. So came Hammy 2 and Tammy. But both died last week, he shed a few tears, and Elmo is wondering what would become of the empty cage. The wheel won't be turning. There will be nobody to feed.

I think he's too scarred and scared to take on new pets anytime soon. Perhaps he'll have to stick with his Transformer robots in the meantime.

Arthur's Rose

2011-08-20T09:55:00.008+08:00

Rose and I at CBTL in December 2009. This November, we will have been friends for ten years.

I had a spur-of-the-moment, post-dinner date last night with my friend Rose, whom I had not seen since January. I have a handful of best friends, from different stages in my life, and Rose belongs to that inner circle, the select few.

The last time I saw her was certainly not the happiest of times. It was during the wake of her husband Arthur, who, in his early 40s, suffered a heart attack.

Over cake and coffee at Glorietta on our way home last night -- she coming from a meeting and I from work -- Rose and I tried to update each other on the highlights of the seven months that we had not seen each other.

Careers, colleagues, children. Her own kids are 15, 13 and 11, quite close to the ages of mine. Most times, especially in days when we shared extremely long lunches, we ruminated on best parenting principles and wondered whether we were raising our children right.

And now, a widow at age 39, she's doing it on her own.

Rose says her kids are coping with the loss of their Papa. They have become more diligent in their studies, and sometimes they are the ones who wake her up in the morning. Her oldest son, a high school senior who is almost six feet tall, acts more responsibly now, perhaps realizing that he needs to step up to the challenge and help fill the void left by his father.

My friend is as vivacious and confident and beautiful as ever, yet she confesses that she alternates between being okay and being not okay. We can laugh aloud, of course,but sometimes, as she has posted as a status update, all she could think of are the words of a John Mayer song: "When you're dreaming with a broken heart/ And waking up is the hardest part..."

I know firsthand that her marriage was not easy. But I also know that she was determined to stick it out with Arthur no matter what happened. For the sake of the children, yes, but for love's sake, most importantly.

But Death happened -- and it was difficult to compete with mortality.

Rose says sometimes she wakes up feeling a light, affectionate touch on her cheek, or dreams of him as he looked in their younger years -- leaner, better shaven, happier. She believes in the afterlife, and is convinced he occasionally reaches out to her to tell her that he is all right.

And so will she be.

Why "single" rocks

2011-08-18T00:08:00.011+08:00

Bea and I at the Purple Ribbon for reproductive health gathering in May.

Josh and I during a family lunch the other weekend

Sophie and I one rainy Saturday evening when we suddenly decided to go out for kebab

Elmo and I during my birthday dinner two and a half years ago

Sometimes I look at the kids seated on either side of our narrow dining table, and I ask myself: where would we all be in ten years?

By then, Bea would be 27, Josh 25, Sophie 21 and Elmo 19. I would be 45.

I've been single for four years. I elected to be so, after being married for thirteen years. My lawyer tells me my marriage could be nullified by the end of the year. The first thing that comes to mind: now I can finally put a relationship status on my Facebook profile. I don't like saying "It's complicated." There is nothing complicated with my status. I was married. It didn't work. I bolted. I'm ok.

In fact, I am more than ok. I am happy. I guess this is because I am essentially a loner. I like my own company. I am pretty selective as to whom I let into my inner circle/s. I generally have good judgment; I thrive in using it, without taking into consideration another person's input.

These four years, I have been doing things as I see fit. Fixing up the house. Getting furniture. Shopping at the supermarket. Planning meals. Saving money. Spending time with the children. Making them study hard. Dealing with growing pains. Determining where I would go for the weekend, if I wanted to go anywhere at all. Reading. Studying. Working my ass off and rewarding myself with a Thai massage or a slice of sans rival. Meeting my friends for lunch and dinner.

I am in charge and I love it. In fact, I love it so much that I cannot imagine ever giving it up again.

When we say we fall in love, we really stumble, trip over ourselves and grovel. We let our guard down and open ourselves to anything. You get disappointed neglected jealous frustrated angry needy. You spend precious time and energy second guessing what the other fellow wants or feels. Your happiness is colored by his mood, his temperament, his availability. In the meantime, what about you -- your aspirations, expectations, little joys? Do you really have to dim your star so his could burn more brightly?

It's not a nice place, believe me. We think men are idiots and are clueless but still they have the power to ruin our lives and sap our spirit if we allow them.

So if anybody asks whether I am in a relationship with anyone, I say no. (People you see very occasionally, and who do not even have the balls to fight for that very occasional time with you, do not count). No it is not as if they are all lining up outside my door and I am haughtily, whimsically, egoistically saying no. The thing is, I am not ready. AND I AM DOWNRIGHT SCARED to lose myself again.

I'm in a good place now. I feel invincible. Indeed, the world is out there for me to conquer. There are so many things to write about, lessons to learn and places to explore. There is so much difference one could make. The children need me more than ever. I have goals, and programs by which I could achieve them. I work well with myself. I am not sure I work that well with another person. See how I tried -- and failed.

And so, without bitterness or ill will, I say now that being single rocks. At least for me it does. I concede it is not for everybody. Many people need a partner to bring out the best in them. You build your life with a partner. You warm up a home and nurture your family. But I have built my life. My home is warm and the kids are growing and are well-nurtured, thank you very much. If I had somebody with me, he would just cramp my style.

Ten years hence, and I think I would still be of the same disposition, with the kids having grown and all.

That, or -- to borrow the words of Anthony Hopkins' character in Meet Joe Black -- "lightning could strike."

Space-starved

2011-08-14T00:32:00.007+08:00

My home office downstairs. This is where I normally stay to get away from it all -- except on nights when there are cockroaches.

Bea and Elmo doing their thing in the cozy, cluttered room we all share.

When I was 12 years old, I wrote in my diary that I wanted a room of my own. I was then sharing with my grandmother. I wanted to fix the room my way but I guess elderly women have this thing for knick-knacks, plastic bags, figurines and other items. Our house had only two bedrooms and my uncle was using the other one.

My grandmother read my diary and confronted me about the fact that I wanted to be on my own. Grudgingly she offered to transfer to the other room with my uncle so I could have the room to myself. Of course, she was just saying that to show how hurt she was.

In those days, children's privacy was no big thing. I could not even ask why she went ahead and read my diary in the first place. Suffice it to say that I apologized profusely, we made up, and went back to peacefully cohabiting the same room until I was 18 and left her house to get hitched.

For the next thirteen years, I shared a room with another roommate. He also had many personal things but little desire to put them where they belonged. Sometimes I worked up an inspiration to clean the clutter and organize it all, but after a few days everything went back to the way it was. I still could not fix the room my way.

In 2007, I moved into my own house, a modest two-bedroom apartment unit. We had a big room and a small room (or a small room, and a smaller room). The smaller room was occupied by an aunt who was boarding with us so she could commute to her workplace more easily. My kids, or a permutation of them when some stayed the night at their father's, and I occupied the bigger room. We had a few things; it was not difficult fitting everyone and everything together.

Four years hence and I am restless again.

The kids are fast growing up. Bea is 17 and in college. Josh is a high school senior. Sophie is turning into a young lady faster than I can spell "adolescence". And Elmo has grown taller and rounder in the past few months.

Needless to say, their space requirements have also grown. Our room is roughly 14 feet by 14 feet (yeah, we live in a cube, and i measured it using a plastic school ruler). In that space we have crammed four study tables with built-in shelves, a double-sized bed, a single-sized bed, and a computer table for our desktop. We have one 0.5-HP air conditioner. We sleep all bundled up together, and coexisting with the kids' books, papers, bags, and gadgets. I have no personal possession in that room save for the single bed which I share with my son anyway. It's not my room anymore: I just sleep there.

In the meantime, the smaller room continues to be occupied by my aunt and our helper. The room also contains all our closets. One cannot dance in there, either.

This is why I always don't get enough sleep. I wait until everybody is upstairs and then spend time in the living room which is adjacent to my home office. (I keep my fingers crossed that there are no roaches around, or else I resort to hanging on to my tall can of insecticide.) My things are there -- and so is my essence. I watch television or movies, write or plan or read or use my laptop. I tire myself out so that when I go upstairs, there is no longer any opportunity to bemoan the clutter or the lack of space. I go straight to sleep.

I haven't lost my childhood dream, though. I still want a room of my own where I could keep things neat and orderly and enjoy some peace and quiet after a hard day's work. I have a new dream, as well: to give the kids ample spaces of their own (boys' room, girls' room at least)so that they could practice independence and responsibility in little things, right at the home. And enjoy some quiet time as well.

I am not giving up on these dreams. I am working hard so I could reach them -- I hope sometime soon.

Punch, anyone?

2011-08-11T00:43:00.010+08:00

(screen shot of a sample random editorial)

Last Sunday, I was called to the conference room by our publisher. Already in the room were two other members of our newspaper's editorial-writing pool: associate editors Chin, who writes for Wednesday and Friday, and Ray, who writes for Monday. I take care of Tuesday and Thursday. (The guy who takes care of Saturday is new and was not called).Smith, who has been our editorial cartoonist for two years now, was also there.

We three writers did not have any idea what was going on. Since I came to the Standard, as editor of the opinion page and as a thrice-weekly (later became twice-weekly) editorial writer, I pretty much settled into a routine immediately. I have no idea how it goes in other newspapers, but my newspaper places complete trust in the judgment of the editorial writer -- who takes on the great task of speaking on behalf of everybody.

There is no order, not even a suggestion, on what topic to write about. The assumption is that you are so attuned with what goes on that you just know.

There is no advice as to which side to take or position to advance. You are expected to know pretty much how the paper thinks and feels.

There is no imposition on how to get your message across. It is a given that you know how to write not just well, but logically and persuasively.

Of course the autonomy is not absolute. Every editorial goes through one or two higher-ups who say whether the piece is acceptable or not. Given the assumptions I mentioned above, the editorials are almost always acceptable. Any corrections are just minor notes in form.

So what was the meeting all about? See, our boss said, other papers are catching up in the "filibuster" game. Ours is not a widely-circulated paper, but it gets through to most people of influence. We are known for being critical of the administration. Decision makers in government, we are told, want to know what the Standard's opinion pages are saying.

Now, one bigger paper has realized it does not pay to be constantly, predictably friendly to the administration that it is starting to eat up on our niche.

Our publisher was clear that the meeting was in no way a dressing down of our daily input or an attempt to be Big Brother. He just wanted us to be aware of what's going on, even as he wondered whether a little more punch would help us keep our niche. It was, after all, the editorial we are talking about -- the paper's stand.

But make no mistakes. We are not critical for the mere sake of being critical. The points we raise are sound and valid and in no way dreamed up. If something is worthy of praise or support, we do so. As for the writing -- well, we pride ourselves in having a good product, more coherent, less convoluted than the others.

As far as we writers are concerned, we are already dishing out punches as necessary, and optimally. We know, too, that delivering our point hysterically would not be quite characteristic of the MST editorials that we were all proud of.

I learned this in class: Journalism is raising hell intelligently. I say amen. A punch may be an act of the fist, the tongue, or the mind. Take your pick.

Septic tank humor

2011-08-05T07:36:00.013+08:00

published 13 Aug 2011, MST

Wondering what the big deal was all about, I went to see “Ang Babae sa Septic Tank (The Woman in the Septic Tank)” last week. It was, after all, the big winner in this year’s Cinemalaya Film Festival.
I was expecting heavy material, deliberate, painstakingly beautiful cinematography, profound dialogue.

There was none of that.

Instead, what you have is an indictment—in the everyday language of Manila’s educated, tech-speaking youth—of the all the pretense surrounding the making of “The Great Filipino Indie Film”. You know, the one that makes it to festivals around the world—the trophies, the red carpet, inflated egos and the delusions of grandeur.

The two lead actors, for instance, playing the producer and the director, were so obsessed with winning an Oscar with a film that would show the travails of a desperate, slum-dwelling widowed mother of seven resorting to selling her child to a pedophile. They fight over details in a coffee shop, lugging their laptops and iPads and their complicated coffee drinks along.

They are envious of another director —whose English is flawed—who has recently reaped awards in Venice. You can’t take the Novaliches out of the fat, arrogant guy, they say, even if he has been received well in Italy. And then the multi-awarded Poongbato walks into the same coffee shop and gets their goat with more tales of his greatness despite his coarseness (Italian coffee = EXpresso).

The would-be hot filmmakers are so mad that they curse Poongbato, not in front of him, of course, but they wait until they get to their cars.

They are tickled pink at finding the right location at the heartland of slums. Oblivious to the very real hardships all around them, the filmmakers jump with glee at how realistic their film was going to be. They jump up and down in mounds of trash—until they see their car being taken apart by the squatters. Realistic enough?

Before this, they go visit the actress Eugene Domingo at her beautiful, modern, expensive home. Domingo’s portraits are all over the place. This is one woman who thinks highly of herself. She is nice, and she knows what she is doing. She offers them all kinds of salad—she eats salad and nothing else these days, and doesn’t it show in her figure? She agrees to shoot film, but not before she gives a lecture on the kinds of acting, and meddles with the script, and dismisses the production assistant as a furniture in the room.

The filmmakers are just too awed by her to protest.

Miss Eugene has one condition, though. She does not like the scene where her character is supposed to be immersed in the septic tank. Of course she’s too good to be swimming in excrement. She will use a double. She then demands an air-conditioned tent, good food, and vaccines, of course. After all, they will be shooting in the slums.

On shooting day, Miss Eugene stands perilously near the septic tank. She meets her double and thinks she is too chubby. She then flatters the young producer and director with her opinion on the first few shots they have taken. She continues to talk, gesturing wildly with her hands—and falls into the tank. Eugene herself, not her double, now swims in all that waste. The filmmakers ask if they can shoot anyway.

Eugene meekly nods. She does not really have much of a choice.

Does the film tell us it’s execrable to capitalize on the misery of others and obsess about recognition to convince ourselves that we matter? Perhaps. The irony is that the film did reap recognition.

adellechua@gmail.com

Outgrowing my bag of secrets

2011-08-04T08:33:00.008+08:00

My bagful of steno notebooks. Journal entries here were written in the span of about a decade.

Keeping up with the times. When computers came along, I wrote e-journals, printed out and bound.

As the cover says, this Hello Kitty diary is volume 2 of my collection (which runs until volume 20 something). I was about 14 or 15 years old, and my juvenile secrets were then kept locked, literally.

The other night it dawned on me that I was not writing on my journals anymore. I have not been for at least two, three years.

As the pictures suggest, my need for journals in the past was prodigious. I started when I was in grade school -- although the first journal that I have kept was the one I had freshman year in high school (1989-1990). I kept on, mostly scribbling at my stenography notebook wherever I was, recording observations, documenting reflections, simply making sense of it all. They are all in the bag.

Later, or beginning 1998 when I had started working and had access to my own computer terminal, I wrote electronic journals and printed them periodically, although I still carried a spare notebook everywhere for the time I was not in front of the computer. The result were thick pages of printed out musings, seen compiled here in a dusty green folder. My last printouts were dated 2005.

I still have to take the time to remember the MS Word/ Officewriter password for my 2006, 2007, 2008 and early 2009 files, migrated from the other workhorses I had used before...and then print them.

And now I am not writing anymore. It was not a conscious choice. I simply stopped feeling like I needed to.

It is easy to worry myself sick because of this development. What had happened to me, the queen of introspection? Have I been doing too much "public" writing (i.e., journalism, blogging), denying the extremely private nature of how my love affair with words even started?

But maybe I should not be so worried. What were the recurring themes of my journals before? Ah, yes -- that I turned to writing because I could not open up my real feelings to anybody, that I felt I had so many concerns that nobody would understand, that while I had my vocal chords intact, I did not have a voice.

On paper, back then, I was lost and eternally searching, buffeted and constantly struggling.

Now I do feel like I am a different person. I can write about my own life as easily as I can about the social issues all of us rile against -- and publish in this blog (Okay, if something is really personal and I feel the need to write about it anyway, in prose or verse, I do so in my other, secret, blog hehe). I get along with people faster, I am more confident that I am at least as good as anybody else, and I see my friends more often than before. Every day I try to be a good example to the children. I am generally able to say what I think, do as I see fit.

Hurray for freedom of expression! I've found my voice!

So, really, what is there to keep under lock and key? Of course, my past has not been ideal. I may have stumbled several times. I am still coming to terms with some of the episodes, not to wallow in guilt, pity or self-loathing (how stupid can you be?!?!), but to learn. And hey I am still here -- perfectly imperfect, absolutely willing to get on with life, nonetheless.

I have seriously considered getting rid of these journals. I get these really crazy thoughts: what if I meet an accident on the road, and in clearing out my things my kids stumble upon those pages, yellowing, dusty, and dense with my secret thoughts? Can they bear to see Mom, who had all the answers, who could do no wrong, as somebody so human and so frail?

But if I destroyed them in my attempt at "tabula rasa" -- a clean slate -- would I not be denying that I really was this kind of person, who had this kind of emotions, who saw the world this way, and who made decisions in this manner? Aren't these things essential to who I am now, and who I will become? To deny them would be to deny me. And I cannot deny me.

For now the contents of the bag stay. And maybe on a rainy afternoon when I have nothing to do, I can at random pull out a notebook, or go to a page, and marvel at how much the writer sounds so different from, yet so much like, me.

Amnesia and closure

2011-08-02T09:45:00.004+08:00

In the season of rains, floods and class suspensions, we hear, once again, suggestions that the school opening be moved to September from the current June.

“Do you think it’s a good idea, Mom?” my sixth-grader daughter asked me.

I told her that I had heard the same proposal since I MYSELF was in grade school. Last I looked, classes still opened in June. And I think it is going to stay that way.

That we Filipinos are prone to making hasty, short-lived proposals is not a new thing. We have done it so many times. It does not only happen during the rainy season.

It happens, for instance, every time the school year opens. We rile against the fact that the government has not done enough to build classrooms, provide adequate facilities and pay teachers well enough to get them to stay.

It happens during elections, when we complain of how people with the same family names occupy key positions in the national and local governments as if they had the monopoly of brilliant genes.

It happens every time a government official or any prominent person becomes the center of a controversy, often in the context of a congressional investigation. Everybody talks about him or her, jumping to conclusions as to that person’s guilt or innocence and speaking about the matter as though the information were not hearsay.

After a few days, however, the attention shifts to something else -- the next big thing, the next compromised celebrity, the next sleazy scandal.

Oh yes, Filipinos have short memories. We easily forget the sins of the past. We move on too easily. Still, this is not the main problem. Our problem is that we forget our setbacks without addressing them and learning from them.

This is why more often than not, they come back to haunt us –big time. Because we have not been thorough in addressing these issues before moving on to the next hot copy, closure becomes elusive. Look now, there are so many things we still do not have closure to.

For example, the nation is again preoccupied with allegations of fraud in the 2004 elections. Should we pursue the guilty? Yes, by all means, if we ever find ourselves so fortunate as to get to the bottom of all this. But we could have done this long ago. Witnesses could have talked among themselves and come forward, unified, to talk about what they claim to know. And then their input could have been used in the investigations at that time -- when it mattered most.

Unfortunately, now that the issue is being revived, there are even more distractions, each one more inconsequential than the one before. Senators Tito Sotto and Francis Pangilinan, for instance, are trading barbs over what happened at the Batasan during the national canvassing. It has become so ridiculous, so pointless that all the average Filipino can think about is how Sharon Cuneta must be feeling these days (Sotto is an uncle, Pangilinan is the husband).

Now, too, we still have not come to terms with what to do with the remains of former President Marcos. There have been intense debates on whether or not he should be laid to rest at the Libingan ng Mga Bayani. The Vice President has been tasked to study the matter. He has, and he has submitted a recommendation which seemed palatable to many. Still, there has been no action. Had this matter been acted upon in the past, then we would not be expending collective energy turning the matter over and over in our heads.

There are so many other things deserving of our immediate attention – progressive things. For example, we could find out why the President, who sounded so upbeat about public-private partnerships during his State-of-the-Nation Address last year, went silent on the program this year. It’s a shame, because public-private collaboration is essential to creating long-term jobs.

We could also preoccupy ourselves with agitating our representatives to act on bills that have been debated endlessly but have not been acted upon in Congress.

We could study how the cash transfer program can discourage the poor’s culture of mendicancy and sense of entitlement to continuous government assistance. We are sure that it could deliver good results if it is done the right way. But what is that right way?

We could show how the national budget could be proposed and passed on the basis of project merit instead of political affiliation.

And many others.

Fortunately for us, this kind of amnesia is curable so long as we deal with our issues squarely and decisively before saying we have moved on.

We just need our leaders to set that good example for us.

adellechua@gmail.com

Believing in non-belief

2011-07-31T12:52:00.004+08:00

Red Tani receives his first holy communion. He would grow up to be an atheist and be president of Filipino Freethinkers.

Red hoists the banner of his organization. FF encourages an exchange of ideas and riles against theocracy.

Jenny is proud mother to Alexandra and Erica.

Baby Jenny with her Catholic mother and Protestant father, circa 1968.

(This is a project for my advanced reporting class, submitted to professor Kim Kierans, vice president of the School of Journalism at University of King's College, Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.)

At a Starbucks overlooking Manila Bay one Sunday evening, 43-year-old Jenny Ortuoste remembers her journey from Christianity to atheism. She had a Catholic mother and Protestant father. She attended a Seventh-Day Adventist school. She went to Mass every Sunday. She memorized long passages from the Bible.

As a teenager, Jenny started questioning the many stories that did not make sense to her. Why would Lot's daughters get their father drunk so they could have sex with him and then bear his children? Why would hospitality dictate that daughters be offered to strangers who come knocking at the door? Who's to say which parts of the Bible should be taken literally, and which should not? Who decides that the Gospels are gospel truth?

Jenny persevered in making sense of the faiths she was born to. But she observed that what was said in church doctrine was rarely observed in real life. When you did not get what you want, you were told: "God has greater plans for you." But what plans? As a young adult, she prayed ceaselessly for her husband to stop seeing his mistress and make their family whole again. He left her and their two kids, anyway. What now?

As a single mother, she joined a protestant group – the Union Church of Manila. She ushered during services. She made her kids go to Bible studies. She tithed. But when she dared speak about domestic abuse at a sharing session, the well-heeled, bejeweled women in her group spoke as though she did not belong to their affluent, sheltered clique. After missing a few sessions to take on extra work to make ends meet at home, those so-called Christian ladies told Jenny to look for another group. The women did not even bother to ask her how she was, whether she was sick, or if they could help. "You know, what would have been the Christian thing to do?" Jenny recalls, before taking a sip of her iced coffee.

Meanwhile, 28-year-old Red Tani was a staunch Catholic in his early life. He attended high school at San Beda College Alabang and went to college at De La Salle University. He prayed a lot and was a member of the Youth for Christ Movement at DLSU.
Red, like Jenny, recalls questioning Biblical stories at a very young age. For instance, he could not quite comprehend how God, in the Old Testament, could kill Egyptian babies just to punish the Pharaoh.

If Jenny's journey was shaped by her experiences, Red's was theoretical. He started creating a "version of Christianity in my mind that was very different from the one of the Roman Catholic Church." He searched for answers, hoping to find something binding that all religions shared.

In an email, Red explains: "It was a series of events rather than a single one. I realized that Christianity, like all other religions, was made by men to express a deeper truth that is shared by all religions. I then studied many religions in the hopes of finding that universal spiritual language. In the end, I found that there was none."

The change was not earth-shaking. Red claims his conversion "has not really changed the way I deal with my problems. I just replace the prayers with goal-setting and reflection, and I handle the daily challenges just the same: with thinking and planning, hard work and persistence, and then feedback and analysis. I would say that life has become more guilt- and anxiety-free, and I have become more accepting of people with different beliefs and of people in general."

**

Edilberto Jimenez has taught theology to college students at Jesuit-run Ateneo de Manila University for 20 years. Before this, he also taught at the University of Santo Tomas, the 400-year-old Catholic university run by the Dominicans, for two years.

He says many students go to the Ateneo because it is regarded as a good school, not because it is a Catholic school. "Here we have all kinds of students," he says. There are those who were born into Catholicism, take this fact for granted and then do nothing – he calls them the folk Catholics. There are those who are committed to their faith. And there are the atheists.

Jimenez says that the sociological basis for young people's attraction to "the denial of the existence of God" is secularization. People, especially the eduated ones, become immersed in science and technology as well as the many philosophies of the world. These claim to be able to replace religion, which many regard as "touchy-feely" – i.e., occasioning feelings of comfort, belongingness and happiness without the benefit of reason.

But among atheists he has encountered in Ateneo, Jimenez says there are two kinds. The first is the intellectual, enlightened kind. These are those who have decided to think a lot about life. They recognize some positive aspects of religion and do not deny them,. "Strangely, they are more spiritual, they appreciate the course (theology) more, and they are more respectful."

The other kind of atheists, Jimenez said, is where the "emo" ones belong. They abhor everything about religion and have "no balance" at all in their belief, or lack thereof. Closed-minded and bitter, they are those who have an axe to grind against the Church.

Is the Church at fault, then, for the emergence of atheists? Certainly, Jimenez says. There is some element of disillusion with the way Church officials and members have been conducting themselves. This also tells us that there is such a high expectation from the Church. Then again, nobody's perfect, and even the Church is a "human institution."

Jimenez says that while reason and logic serve scientists well, they do not apply to "essentials" -- meaning faith – because these clearly cannot be proven or falsified.

Jenny would not agree. She claims to get by with pure reason in everything she does, and finds that she is happier, more whole. She is a PhD candidate for communications research at the University of the Philippines. She is the chief of staff of the general manager of a government-owned corporation. She writes a weekly column on popular culture, hosts a radio show, and collects books and fountain pens. Her daughters have grown into lovely ladies and she is friends with her former husband (her marriage has been civilly anulled).

Red's day job is running a Web design company with his wife. He also occasionally accepts IT consultancy projects. He is better known, though, for the activities of Filipino Freethinkers, of which he is president. FF is a forum for the exchange of ideas in social issues such as reproductive health, divorce, and lesbian-gay, bisexual and transgendered people. It also attacks Catholic religious leaders for what is known as "theocracy" (Jenny calls it "arrogance of the faith") -- "trying to legislate the beliefs of one sect over the entire country."

FF holds meet-ups where current events are discussed. Everybody is welcome to join these gatherings – even believers. See, not all members of FF are nonbelievers. "What binds us together is not what we think -- whether we're atheists or agnostics or whatever -- but how we think -- using reason and science to reach our own conclusions," Red adds. FF also has a strong presence on the Internet, via www.filipinofreethinkers.org.

Still, FF "is more than just a forum and a website: we are advocates of reason and science, activists of secularism, and a support group for secularists of all sorts. The website, online forums, and meetups are just tools we use for these ends."

The Internet has decidedly been a major factor in emboldening young Filipinos to express their thoughts on non-belief. Blogs such as the Pinoy atheist, Radioactive atheist, Atheistang Pinoy and many others have served as a platform for such thinkers to express themselves. The Philippine Atheists and Agnostics Society, established earlier this year, is also conducting its "outing" campaigns. "Filipino atheists demand equal treatment and respect in the present world. No more hiding, no more lying, we are coming out of our closets," says Marissa Torres Langseth, PATAS founder, in the group's Web site.

Still, despite the apparent "coolness" of being an atheist – it implies, after all, that one is a thinker and an intellectual rebel – Jenny still feels that she is part of a minority, especially in the Philippines where nearly 90 percent are Christians. "It's easier to be gay than to be an atheist in this country." There are no obvious acts of persecution, of course, just knowing looks from those who don't see things as you do – and want to impose their beliefs on you.

Jimenez believes that even as Catholic institutions like the Ateneo have activities to nurture students' Catholic faith, society must simply give atheists space. He concedes that some of the more enlightened atheists he knows are "less bitter, more conscientious, more spiritual, and more capable of detaching themselves from wealth, power and success" than those who claim to be members of the Catholic flock.

Red wants atheists to be treated with respect and integrity. His group is out to convince many closet atheists out there that it is okay not to believe – although it is okay to do so, as well. Despite all the fuss, being an atheist is no big deal for him. "It does not say a lot about a person. I'd rather they learn more about the individual because there is so much more to a person than whether they believe in god(s)."

A suitable wife

2011-07-31T12:20:00.008+08:00

"Beware of (marriage) brokers," says the sign inside the PRISM building. That does not mean the brokers do not operate somewhere else.

Jazmine, 19, cannot wait to begin her life in Korea with her husband. They married in April after a brief courtship, and he is now waiting for her there.

Sheila Choi, 35, and her happy marriage may be the exception to the rule.

This is a project for Advanced Reporting class, which I wrote with Malte Kollenberg, Korea correspondent for Kollenbecker Multimedia Journalism. Malte also took the photos.

DEATH by strangulation, says a January 19, 2011 Philippine autopsy report. Suicide, says another issued in South Korea eight days earlier.

They are reports on the same body, Filipina Cathy Bonesa Mae Deocades', 25. Like many other women, she fled to escape poverty by marrying a foreigner. Soon after the wedding, Cathy moved to Korea, perhaps expecting a life she thought she knew from soap operas.

She returned to the Philippines in a box.

A poignant send-off

The People’s Reform Initiative for Social Movement (PRISM)- an NGO affiliated with the Commission on Filipinos Overseas – conducts pre-departure orientation seminars for Filipino women married to foreigners.

The seminar for Korea-bound brides takes two days and includes talks on immigration laws, culture, and domestic abuse. PRISM talks to about 60 Korea-bound women in a given month. These women need certificates from attending this seminar to live in their husbands’ country.

Counselor Len Espinosa says PRISM has been including Cathy’s case in the talks. Years ago, Cathy was just one of those women attending the seminar. Now she is a warning. A marriage broker introduced Cathy to her husband. Most of the women attending the seminar also met their husbands the same way -- even though none of them would admit they did.

Brokering the deal

In 1990, the Philippines passed Republic Act 6955, which criminalizes profiting out of matching Filipina brides to foreign partners or advertising announcements for such searches.

This did not stop the extremely lucrative business. The Internet made the process easier as some brokers pose as harmless Internet dating sites.

In Korea, the mail-order bride system is legal and in fact a thriving industry. A man searching for a bride for example seeks out a broker from the Philippines. The broker is typically female and middle-aged.

Regina Galias of the CFO says these brokers hold “show ups”, or a gathering of potential brides in hotels, restaurants, even the back of vans - where, a representative of the man picks out the most attractive girl in the group.

Once a bride has been chosen, the groom shells out the equivalent of P500,000 for the processing of papers, the actual wedding ceremony and the preparation of the bride to eventually join her husband in Korea, says Angela Penson, Excutive Director of PRISM.

Whatever is left, the broker keeps.

Motivations

Economic upliftment is a potent force that drives Filipinas to marry foreign men they hardly know. There is the hope that doing so would secure the future of their families.

Trends have been alarming. In 2005, the average Filipina marrying a South Korean was between 25 and 29 years old, from the National Capital Region, a college graduate, and had a job.

In 2009, the average age went down to 24 to 26 years old, and there was a marked increase in the number of high school graduates and unemployed women.

The Korean government reports that in 2004, eleven percent of Korean marriages took place between Korean men and foreign women. It is a 38-percent increase from 2003 levels. In 2004, more than 25 thousand men married foreigners, a number more than twice the 2002 figure.

By the end of 2010 7,476 Filipinos, married to Korean nationals were living in South Korea, most of them women. For example: Out of 919 Filipino Seoullites, only 50 are men.

Korea has an increasing demand for women. Educated women leave for the cities of Seoul or Busan leaving behind workers and farmers in more rural areas.

The 2010 census reveals that there are 881,665 unmarried men older than 32 with nothing more than a high school diploma. But only 472,370 women with a similar background.

Korean women want an educated, financially stable partner with property. Men from rural areas do not meet these qualifications, so they look abroad for others who would take them as they are.

Not a bed of roses

Filipinas find that their Korean husbands are bound by filial piety. Newlyweds do not live on their own. The wife serves the parents of her husband. They have no independent funds and the money is managed by the in-laws.

Domestic abuse is a reality. A PRISM document says Cathy had suffered in the hands of her husband and her mother-in-law. Under worst-case scenarios, some girls find themselves not as wives but sex or labor slaves.

Korea’s Ministry for Gender Equality and Family has set up an Emergency Support Center for Migrant Women. This is the place women can turn to. There are six such centers in Korea with a total of 77 staff members.

For Penson, this is not enough. “Korea should do more”, she says.

The Sheila story

Not all marriages are unhappy. Sheila Choi, 32, is a Methodist pastor who will be living in Korea only after spending seven years in the Philippines with her husband.

He is her age, also a pastor, and has been very “kind, caring, loving and flexible” all these years. She met him when she was working as an English language instructor to Koreans: he was a friend of her boss.

Jazmine’s “whole new world”

Jazmine, 20, looks frustrated. The CFO has been holding her certificate. She married her 47-year-old husband in April; he is now waiting for her in Korea.

Jazmine says she is excited to begin a new life there. But the counselors have been asking her difficult questions. She is being grilled for marrying in San Juan City when she lived in Dasmarinas Cavite. “It was my aunt who processed my documents,” Jazmine insists.

"How exactly did she become your aunt?" Penson asks. Jazmine just looks at her blankly.

Penson has a knowing, sad look on her face. The law does not have enough teeth, entrapment operations are slow in coming, and the women are desperate enough to embrace the unknown – even with the tragic tale of Cathy looming in the background.

Fuss about a speech

2011-07-27T17:34:00.000+08:00

published 27 July 2011, MST

It is tempting to dismiss the State-of-the-Nation Address as some sort of cliché. The same things happen every year.

For days and weeks before, there is speculation about what the president is going to talk about. Students wonder whether classes would be suspended.

Groups of every orientation stage rallies on the streets. Effigies are burned. Police officials claim they are prepared to contain the crowd if it gets unruly.

There is inordinate attention to what lawmakers, especially the women, wear so that the occasion resembles what happens on the red carpet before the Oscar Awards. The Who’s Who in Philippine politics and media sashay to their seats.

The president delivers his or her speech with a distinct gimmick for that year. Remember former President Fidel Ramos’ Mang Pandoy and former President Gloria Arroyo’s Bangkang Papel (Paper Sailboat) Boys? Now it’s “wang-wang” season.

The president reports on the state of the nation using a version that paints the rosiest picture.

Who’s to say whether other versions are more, or less, accurate? (Outside the Batasan, rallyists deliver their alternate Sonas, representing their own take.)

Interruptions of the speech, such as when the president is applauded, or given a standing ovation, or how many times he cracks a joke or buckles or coughs, are counted.

In this age of Facebook and Twitter, live online commentary is possible from anyone who has a computer or mobile device. The exchanges in themselves are fascinating.

(And because the text of the speech was made available Monday afternoon at www.gov.ph, one could actually read, speak and gesture along with Mr. Aquino).

Everybody analyzes what the president said and what he did not. Supporters praise him while critics say the speech failed to do this and that.

After a few days, everybody forgets about the Sona and goes about his or her usual ways.

***

These are exactly what happened Monday with President Noynoy Aquino’s second address.

The reactions are mixed: on one hand, he is said to have connected well with the ordinary Filipino especially when he asked us all to make the fight against corruption personal.

On the other, he is accused of not offering us anything new.

The speech could have sounded better, of course, had the President’s team connected it with the previous Sona to show exactly how things have advanced. The issues deemed important in the first year should be followed through in the second, third, fourth, fifth and sixth years. Only then can we say whether progress has been made.

The failure to do exactly this says a lot. Does President Aquino, for instance, not think public-private partnerships are not important anymore? Or was there nothing yet worth reporting at this point?

Silence is revealing as well. We doubt whether the mention of Hacienda Luisita, the reproductive health and the freedom of information bills simply slipped the presidential speechwriters’ minds. There is a reason for not mentioning them: what are these reasons?

Anecdotes are nice because they provide color to the claims, but we would rather know exactly where the much-touted straight and narrow path is leading us. If only we did, perhaps more would happily get on board.

Indeed the President sounded sincere and earnest. That he pounced away at the previous administration—again, and predictably—was a waste of the goodwill that his manner of delivery could have generated.

We don’t live in a fantasy world. We understand that our leaders are humans, are not perfect, and may from time to time make poor decisions. Hence we do not need to be shown that they are Superman out to fight the evil of corruption and bad governance, or Mr. Virtue in stark contrast to Mrs. Vice. Many are getting sick of the oversimplification and the gloating: “Look at how bad things were then, and look how great they have been since we came here!”

I wonder: how would a presentation of both gains and setbacks of the PRESENT administration have affected people’s responses? I would have appreciated it. Again, nobody’s perfect. What is important is that we chip in to fill each other’s inadequacies. The administration may be amazed at how many citizens, whether they voted for Mr. Aquino or not, are willing to help.

Ultimately it is not about whoever takes that podium and talks for nearly an hour. It is about Filipinos who need to be healed of petty politics and our consequent apathy in the things that matter most.

Maybe next year will be better. And so we wait, again.

adellechua@gmail.com

A regional education

2011-07-19T07:39:00.002+08:00

“Take us to the beach!” they said when we asked them where they wanted to go for the weekend.

Our foreign classmates, all working journalists from all over Asia, had been in Manila a full week, maybe more, for the on-campus sessions of our distance-learning graduate program in journalism at Ateneo de Manila. But because of the rains when they arrived, and the sheer amount of material we had to read, papers we had to write and presentations we had to prepare, most of them had never been anywhere beyond the normal school-dormitory route.

Last weekend was thankfully sunny and pleasant and our load was relatively lighter. We had motive, means and opportunity.

We Filipinos, ever the gracious hosts, set off to work. One scouted for a big-enough vehicle to take us all to Batangas. Another explored which resorts we could visit. Yet another suggested it would be nice to take a detour to Tagaytay and take pictures around the small volcano everybody has heard about but never seen. The Indonesians, of course, knew volcanoes like the back of their hand. But some of the others have never seen a volcano and thus happily said yes. Still another volunteered to cook laing and bring it as baon during the day trip.

Sunday was our only free day, and so not everybody decided to come along for the ride. A few others decided to sleep in or explore the metro on their own. Still, we had ten adults in the van – three Filipinos, two Indonesians, two Chinese, one Vietnamese, one Nepalese and one German working in Korea. We set off for the journey.

We stayed in Tagaytay for about 30 minutes, just taking pictures and sipping coffee from the deck of Starbucks. From there it was a long ride and everybody was feeling cramped and a little bit impatient. We arrived at Laiya, San Juan, Batangas nearing noon, and everybody was hungry. Nearly all jumped, not into the water but at the laing, offered to us in two containers – spicy and non-spicy – and the rice. Food from the resort canteen was also brought in, and we had a feast of beef steak, pork binagoongan, adobong pusit, sarciadong talakitok and salted egg with tomatoes.

Our stomachs’ rumblings out of the way, those of us who wanted to hit the water did. It was a good day for the beach – sunny and no hint of rain. We saw a boat rental service that would take us for a ride to a patch of island 20 minutes away and back. Everyone went except for one Filipino, a journalism teacher from Pasig, who volunteered to stay in the cottage and watch our bags. The blue-green water was clear and even the rather string waves did not scare us.

My classmates marveled at how conservative Filipinos were in their beachwear. Was it because we were Catholic? Here, we explained, only those who looked like models wore swimsuits, except of course when it was absolutely imposed by the resort. In China, Hugh from Shenzen said, everybody wore little pieces of cloth (he himself was in skimpy white swimming trunks). That’s easy to see, we Filipinos countered. Young Chinese people were generally thin. And then we talked about other societies, the US, for example, where people of any size and orientation had no qualms donning swimsuit. They did not care what others thought. Would it not be nice to not care?

I brought along my 11-year-old daughter Sophie who asked me to bury her in the sand and take a picture of her protruding head. Maryoto, the agriculture writer from Jakarta, took photos as well, as he himself asked to be photographed in what would look like a rock-climbing pose. But nobody was climbing anything – he just had to raise his feet to look like he was.

A few more minutes in the water, and soon we had to shower and dress to prepare for the long trip back to Quezon City. While we were fixing ourselves, Malte the German bought beer for everybody and amazed us all by how he could open bottles using folded-up newspaper. Some locals peddled their goods from cottage to cottage, and at first we ignored them but soon became attracted to the sweets in bilaos. Hugh’s friend Steve, who was in the Philippines for leisure and not for study, warded off my money when I was paying for sweet tamarinds and paid for them himself.

On the way back, Phuong, a news manager from Vietnam, suggested we sing. Much to our surprise, the Indonesians started humming Freddie Aguilar’s Anak. Did they know what it meant, we asked. No, but you could tell it was sad, they said. The Filipinos then explained that it was about a prodigal son – and then sang the words. From then on, each country took turns singing something local to them. Phuong said most Vietnamese songs were sad love songs and were about the woman missing the man, who was either fighting the war or working in a faraway place. Hugh and Steve, with the benefit of Google, sang the theme of the Asian games without missing a word. The Nepalese Dinesh initially said he knew only two lines of everything, but gamely sang as well. He also used his iPhone to play traditional meditation songs that he said he listened to at the end of a busy day. We tried to make Malte sing Nobody but you (with the hand gestures, preferably), but he was, or pretended to be, sound asleep. Toward the end we sang our national anthems, branding those who forgot their words as unpatriotic.

Maryoto and his fellow Indonesian Paulus took advantage of lulls when we thought of what else to sing, by singing themselves. Hands down, they won. They were even persuading our driver, Kuya Jun, to join the merrymaking. We made plans to go to a karaoke before everyone flew back to their respective countries this weekend.

Dinner was at Dencio’s in Eastwood City. Hugh was impressed by the place and said he would return to Eastwood soon -- but realized he could not walk to it from his dorm. We were back in McDonald’s Katipunan, where it all started, at eight in the evening.

We would see each other the next morning in class, but there was a lot of happy education that took place that day.

adellechua@gmail.com

An education in ethics

2011-07-16T05:48:00.005+08:00

My classmates and I with our professor, Chay. Thanks to Indonesia'a Andreas Maryoto for the photo. :)

The online sessions for my class in Media Ethics was concluded Thursday. Suffice it to say the course, taught ably and engagingly by Ms. Chay Hofilena, jolted me and I guess my classmates on some individual country practices and universal standards that may be applicable in our careers.

I believe that the core value of this course, however, was not in the amount of new information obtained through readings and discussions, but in its ability to force one to think and apply the benefit of hindsight to the things one has done before and what many are still doing now.

Main takeaway: journalism is an act of character. Nobody's perfect, but everybody can be more aware, more discerning, and do things better from hereon.

I am glad I took this class early on in my career (I am only in my 5th year in traditional media). It's a good companion for the rest of the journey.

Gifts in the newsroom

2011-07-13T06:16:00.001+08:00

paper on discourse ethics

We have talked about several philosophies. The impression we get is that faced with ethical dilemmas in the practice of our profession, journalists can, consciously or not, still respond in different ways and be justified in doing so.

Discourse ethics is an attempt to address the problems posed by relativism. Primarily it does not tell us what to do. What it gives us is a method by which to decide on what to do.

Discourse ethics also tells us that all the people involved in and affected by the ethical issue at hand could in fact agree on how to arrive at the best course of action.

On one hand, this is comforting. Finally there is a set of guidelines to enable us all to decide on our actions in a similar way.

On the one hand, one is led to ask: Isn’t discourse ethics too good to be true?
Consider the practice of journalists accepting gifts from businesses and public officials. At Christmastime, specifically, the newsroom is abuzz with activity –in the sheer amount of gifts coming in.

There are bottles of wine, baskets of Christmas Eve goodies, umbrellas, calendars and big crates of fruits. Sometimes there are supermarket gift certificates. These are addressed to reporters covering a particular beat or to editors who process the stories filed by reporters and columnists.

The philosophers would have their own opinion on whether or not it is all right for journalists to accept these Christmas tokens.

Aristotle and Confucius would say it is all right to accept so long as the amount of the token is not too big and that there is an understanding that the reporter for instance is under no obligation to report favorably about the gift sender or water down a negative report about him or her.

Mills would probably say that it is a harmless gift that gives happiness to both giver and receiver, so why not?

Rawls would say it is all right to accept the gift because, using the veil of ignorance, it is not coming from a politician and received by a journalist but a Christmas token given by one person to another in the spirit of the season.

Cultural relativism would say that in our culture it is rude to say no to gifts and hence the journalist should accept it.

Discourse ethics will NOT tell us whether it is all right or not to accept such gifts. It only tells us that we have to get the side of the people involved – the giver, the receiver, the editor or publisher of the news organization, maybe a reader – and let them know of the extent of the ethical question. They will then talk about whether or not the practice is acceptable. Whatever the outcome is your answer.

There are glaring problems here. The very act of choosing which affected people would participate is a subjective act. It also assumes that everybody will, at some point in the future, arrive at an agreement. But what if there are irreconcilable differences? I could very easily substitute a more sympathetic participant: I meet the requirements and yet come up with an outcome favorable to me.

In the end, there is no way other than to live with the realities of compromise and relativism in the field. We just have to, every time, pause to ascertain that our decisions are defensible and compatible with our consciences.

If not, maybe it is time to look for another job.

Utilitarianism and warm, fuzzy feelings

2011-07-13T06:14:00.000+08:00

paper on media ethics, attempt at philosophizing

I would like to devote this paper to the classic utilitarian philosophy of Bentham and Mill, as discussed by James Rachels in his article The Debate Over Utilitarianism, and especially as it relates to “happiness.”

When I was asked to write a weekly column five years ago, one of my earliest challenges was to come out with a column name that would best represent me and encapsulate the things I intended to write about in my articles.

I decided on “Chasing Happy.” Some have pointed out that it was grammatically wrong. But I stood my ground. “Happy” was a personification of happiness. Paraphrased, my column could well be called “the pursuit of happiness”. I intended to write about a collective journey into achieving higher ends (social equality, freedom, national pride), focusing on the “chasing” rather than the “happy.” Happy is elusive, after all.

Reading about utilitarian philosophy for the first time, I realized there is more to happiness than what it seems.

We often equate happiness with something that gives us nice, positive feelings. That this is not true all the time constitutes one of the most lasting critiques of utilitarianism. According to classic utilitarianism, the right act is that which yields the best consequences. In assessing the consequence, the only thing that matters is the happiness or unhappiness the act caused.

But how is happiness to be measured? And whose happiness?

Eleven months ago, a deranged policeman, who had just been dismissed from service, took a busload of Chinese tourists hostage. He had the bus parked at the Luneta and negotiated with the government. He also spoke with a few prominent broadcasters, all the while monitoring the news – where he was the main feature -- from the television set inside the bus. By early evening, the policeman had been agitated enough that he started shooting indiscriminately, killing eight tourists in the bus.

There are two “happinesses” here that were weighed against each other. The mediamen’s high of being in the thick of action in giving the viewing public what they want: breaking news.

And then, the hostages contemplated another kind of happiness: the prospect of being eventually safe.

Utilitarianism prescribes pursuing the greatest good of the greatest number. If we take this for its simplistic meaning, then certainly the happiness of the public, the satisfaction derived out of knowing what happens, as it happens, is paramount. It would take precedence over the tourists’ (and their families’) concern for their safety.

A shallow appreciation of the classical utilitarian school would probably offer this ridiculous solution (which in fact did prevail). But a better understanding would emphasize discernment, truly objective, in coming up with a resolution. Perhaps this is “chasing” in an enlightened manner.

In either case, no warm, fuzzy feelings were had. The tourists died, the nation was internationally embarrassed and the officials in charge were blamed.

There goes the bride (2)

2011-07-12T00:06:00.001+08:00

Jazmine, who turns 20 this year, is becoming increasingly frustrated that the Commission on Filipinos Overseas has not yet released her certificate of completion of the pre-departure orientation seminar. She needs the certificate to get her visa processed by the Korean Embassy. Her 47-year-old husband, whom she married in April, is waiting for her in his hometown.

Jazmine says she is excited to begin a new life in Korea. Even her parents have given her their blessing. But the counselors of the People’s Reform Initiative for Social Mobilization Foundation, one of two NGOs to which the CFO has delegated its counseling functions, have been asking her to return again and again, each time asking her difficult questions.

That afternoon she is being grilled on why she was married in San Juan City when she lived in Dasmarinas, Cavite. “But it was my aunt who processed my documents…” Jazmine insists, as though it explains everything.

"How exactly did this woman become your aunt?" the interviewer asks. Jazmine just looks at her blankly.

Angela Cheryl Penson, executive director of PRISM, has a sad, knowing look on her face. She is used to these scenarios, processing about 60 brides bound for Korea every month. With few exceptions, the stories are strikingly similar.
It takes a lot of desperation for Filipino women to marry foreign men they hardly know, much less love. There is always the hope that the marriage would be their ticket out of poverty, and would enable them to financially take care of their parents and siblings as well. Never mind that they would be, so soon after the wedding, whisked out of the Philippines and thrust into a completely foreign environment.

Two weeks ago I talked about the hope of the Migrant Integration and Educational Division chief of the CFO, Regina Galias, that the law on mail-order brides would be updated to reflect technological developments that have made things easier for such activities to flourish these days.

Now Penson also suggests holding a different kind of pre-departure seminar to Filipino women BEFORE they actually marry their foreign partners – at the level of the local government registrar. Prevention is, after all, always better than cure.

More often than not, Filipina brides are introduced to their Korean husbands by so-called marriage brokers, or matchmakers who profit from the arrangement. The operation of marriage brokers is illegal in the Philippines, but it does not mean they do not exist, Penson adds. They do anything to convince the potential bride – and her family – that marrying this foreigner would be the solution to their problems, that life in Korea is idyllic, and that the husband would be handsome and kind and generous and ever-understanding, much like the dashing lead stars in the popular Koreanovelas.

When the girls eventually marry and then fly to Korea to start a new life there, they discover it is not what they have been made to believe. Their husbands are farmers, not well-dressed executives in the city. Their mothers-in-law are not doting figures; they meddle in almost every aspect of their lives. The language problem makes any form of communication between husband and wife impossible. They cannot even go out and look for work to send some money back home.

Worse, some marriage migrants experience physical abuse.

In January of this year, 25-year-old Cathy Bonesa Mae Deocades arrived back in General Santos City in a box. According to a report by the Korea Times Online, she had hanged herself in their home in Gongju province. Prior to her death, she had intimated to people around her that she had been physically abused by her husband and even sold to other men for sex. She had called her parents to ask them to send her money so she could escape and go back to the Philippines.

Her husband’s family insists Cathy suffered from post-partum depression. She had just given birth to her first child five months before her death.

The suicide findings are being disputed and now her family is looking for help in trying to ascertain whether Cathy was indeed depressed or whether there was foul play involved. Cathy was found to have met and married her husband through a marriage broker. Are there efforts to find out who the broker was?

There are no answers yet, but Penson and her team of counselors make sure they tell Cathy’s story to the group of would-be marriage migrants in the hope of asking them, again and again, if they really knew what they were getting into.

But how can you argue with free will, asks Angelo Dwight Penson, chairman of the foundation. In the end, after you have warned them repeatedly, after you have told them what could happen to them if they are not discerning, and even if you talk about Cathy’s case, they still want to go.

Angela says that sometimes, even the parents of the brides angrily storm their office, demanding why the counselors are interfering with their daughters’ choice.

The issue of mail-order brides is not a new one, and nor is it peculiar to the Philippines. There are also cases of brides from Mongolia, Vietnam, even Russia. The grooms are not all Korean, either.

But the tragedy is that in this day and age, some women still feel desperate enough to put themselves at risk for the prospect of economic upliftment, with the encouragement of their families and the communities. The even greater tragedy is that we who grasp the bigger picture can only look on and do nothing as they make choices for themselves.

Jazmine, for instance, impatiently gather her things together and implores Penson: “Hindi nyo po ba maibibigay ang certificate ko?” (Won’t you ever get around to issuing me my certificate?)”

adellechua@gmail.com

Moderating narcissism

2011-07-09T20:39:00.001+08:00

assignment for my class in Media Law. The question was: What about media can and should be regulated?

Regulation means allowing a certain degree of freedom but also setting the parameters of this freedom. It usually comes from outside and is perceived as a threat.

I will argue the opposite: a greater threat to Philippine media comes from within.

I am not aware of the situation in other countries, but in the Philippines, at least in the capital, the press is free. We have become so disgusted with the idea of government suppression that we have riled against it post-Marcos. Howls are raised upon any attempt to intervene. Indeed our experience has been so bitter that we have become paranoid to the slightest intrusion into our independence.

It is precisely because of this that members of the Philippine press have become paranoid, arrogant -- even narcissistic.

The fact is that journalists (often broadcasters, for they are most visible) have become so popular to the masses that their authoritative voices are mistaken for authority. This has enabled some of them to get elecetd to higher office – national and local alike.

They are treated like celebrities, receivers of attention instead of messengers, the focus of attention instead of helping enlighten the public on numerous issues. The job becomes glamorized. Journalists and sometimes networks are made aware that their opinions do matter, and that politicians need to get on their good side if they want to be presented favorably to the people.

The tragedy is that many times, journalists succumb to the temptation and relish the limelight. They become too full of themsleves. They become either hysterical, overzealous crusaders or influence peddlers who curry favors from government officials and businesses. Even the way they deliver the news calls attention to themselves.

With the tone of their voices, the content of their pieces, they get away with passing off opinion as fact.

They feel entitled to being part of the action instead of faithfully chronicling it. They blur all lines and jump into the fray, endangering their and others' lives, all in the name of the "scoop." The Peninsula Manila incident (where reporters refused to leave at the height of the government assault of the mutineers) and the Luneta hostage tragedy (where hysterical voices of broadcast personalities probably agitated the hostage taker) come to mind. It's a racy job, yes, but we must know when to step back.

On and off, there is a drive to de-criminalize libel, which penalties are provided for in the Revised Penal Code. This is seen by some as superfluous – suits, after all, serve as badge of honor to many practicioners. I believe it all redounds to communication skills – how you can pass off saying the most contriversial things in the most uncontroversial manner.

They say that the Philippines is one of the most dangerous places to be for journalists, because of the many extra-legal killings that have taken place and are still taking place here.

The proposal to arm mediamen to enable them to protect themselves, however, does not address the problem at its root. The solution is to make the wheels of justice turn faster so that those who feel they were aggrieved do not take matters into their own hands. Another solution – an ideal however far fetched one – is to do away with the feudal system that enables local government officials to feel as though their areas of jurisdiction were their personal kingdoms, where they could anything and get away with it. Such is the culture of impunity that has made the likes of the Maguindanao massacre possible.

In the meantime, these evils do not deter journalists from doing what we do.

Let us face it: It feels good to be part of something big, to see our names in print and our faces and voices over television or radio. More than this, it feels good to know we are doing our bit, and making a difference, helping make the world a better place. It's a sweet trap.

If we are not careful and mindful, we could dim our discretion. We could pursue our practice for the wrong reasons – exact favor from others, get back at our enemies, do anything for the ratings/ circulation, make ourselves near-immortal.

Media groups and forums should thus help by constantly reminding us of our place in society and the ultimate goal of our profession. It was in our readings last week: "The primary ourposeof journalism is to provide citizens with the information they need to be free and self-governing."

This is all. We are not rock stars. We are journalists.

Down from the ivory tower: Reflections on Kovach and Rosenstiel's Elements of Journalism

2011-07-09T20:33:00.002+08:00

assignment for my Media Ethics class

The 2007 edition of The Elements of Journalism, by Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel, is an act of humility.

The authors recognize that journalism in not invincible. It is vulnerable to changes brought about by technology and the changing times. This new edition is their answer – a testament to the fact that the industry must change in order to remain relevant and true to its fundamental purpose.

The advent of the Internet has caused increased participation from the public in the shaping of what is deemed newsworthy. Citizens are not anymore just passive consumers (in fact, they have been imbued with rights and responsibilities). Journalists are no longer like demi gods or gatekeepers who determine which information should be reported and which should be not.

Indeed, journalists must help the public make sense of the deluge of information toward the achievement of the end: providing information citizens need to be free and self-governing.

The book tackles each of the ten elements in separate chapters, reminding practicioners of the basic, uncompromisable things. Early on, we are reminded that our primary obligation is to the truth, our primary loyalty is to citizens and that the essence of our job is a discipline of verification.

Using real-life situations, the authors acknowledge the reality of conflict of interest. Kovach and Rosenstiel are not afraid to volunteer the information that they have made errors in judgment before – specifically in the case of Maggie Galllagher whom they set as a good example in a previous edition. Eventually, Gallagher was found to be leading a double life, acting as a public-relations consultant of a government agency. This serves as a reminder that the credibility we toiled for over many years could crumble with just one misstep.

As an opinion writer, I especially like the example of the government official changing careers, becoming a journalist and eventually winning a Pulitzer for his commentary. It shows that good journalism is possible even if you have to take sides – one only has to make sure that the facts upon which the opinion is based are airtight and obtained through objective methods.

The book shatters myths about the profession, one of which is that there exists a wall between pursuing journalism in the service of the public and doing so as a business enterprise, and that one has to be on either side of the wall. Kovach and Rosenstiel offer a glimmer of hope on this one – that both interests could be harmonized, and this includes ensuring that even management people understand the essence of the profession and have the interests of the public at heart. Idealists need not be seen as freaks.

Another myth is that the best journalists are superhumanly independent. The authors recognize that journalists are people and are moved by different biases. We should not fancy ourselves infallible. What we should do is to take conscious steps in using objective METHODS so that despite our biases, we come across as credible and of service to the public.

One chapter deals with the often-romanticized aspect of being a journalist – that of being watchdogs. Some perform this job overzealously that they contribute to the chaos instead of helping the public make sense of what is happening. In this regard, the phrase “raising hell in an intelligent way” rings loud and true. If we do this, we have a better chance of being heard and making a difference.

We are also reminded to tell our stories without capitalizing on salacious details of the miseries of others. This brings to mind instances when the public is treated to an inordinate amount of time on relatively inconsequential topics. It is easy to tell how we may fall into the trap, and thus we should be careful.

Finally, in chapter 10, the authors assert that journalism is an act of character. I find this most humbling. Our job has been portrayed in movies and has been the subject of myths and misconceptions. The book reminds us of the fundamental things that should take us through every imaginable phase of change in the industry. It tells us to harbor no illusions and warns us against feelings of hubris and grandiosity.

There goes the bride (1)

2011-06-30T07:59:00.001+08:00

published June 29, 2011, Manila Standard Today

Remember how outraged some Filipinos were when American actor Alec Baldwin said, in an interview on Late Show with David Letterman, that he would like to get himself a Filipina mail-order bride? The Philippine consulate in New York even wrote Baldwin a letter, and the actor subsequently apologized.
Injured (or oversensitive, depending on who’s talking) national pride notwithstanding, denying the existence of Filipina mail-order brides would be closing our eyes to a reality that’s very much there.

The figures are hard to obtain, because hardly anybody steps forward to say she is one given that such arrangements are illegal here. But Regina Galias, chief of the Migrant Integration and Education Division of the Commission on Filipinos Overseas—an agency under the Office of the President—thinks she can spot a suspected mail-order bride in the course of her work in the government. Part of her job is providing counseling services to marriage migrants—Filipinos who, after having married a foreigner, decide to leave the Philippines and settle in their spouses’ country.

The counseling is mandatory and a certificate from the commission is required before the marriage migrant can leave the country.

First, a two-hour group counseling is given to those headed for similar countries: immigration policies, attributes of a specific nationality, even warnings on domestic violence are discussed. After this, a one-on-one talk takes place between the marriage migrant and a commission official. The migrant (about 90 percent are female) is asked about the nature of her relationship with her husband—how they met, how long they have known each other, how well they know each other’s qualities and preferences. It is through these one-on-one interviews that counselors pick up clues and put together a story about what drives a woman to marry the foreigner.

And then, the commission can withhold the issuance of a certificate if it believes that the would-be migrant is in fact a mail-order bride.

Galias agrees that economic upliftment is a great motivation for Filipino women to embrace the unknown for the sake of their families. Alas, some do so upon the prodding of their own parents. She remembers the case of a 19-year-old girl from Nueva Ecija (central Philippines) who she believes is a stereotypical “ideal” daughter— sacrificing, selfless and obedient. The girl had a Filipino boyfriend of one year when she married a Korean man whom she had known only a few days. She broke up with the Filipino only on the day after her wedding.

Seeing red flags all over, the commission did not issue a certificate and instead advised the girl to convince her husband to live in the Philippines and get to know her and her country more instead.

Further conversations revealed that the girl did not really want to get married in the first place, much less go to Korea and leave everything behind in the Philippines. But she wanted a better life for her parents and send her younger siblings to school. She was just worried that her husband would get mad and the person who “referred” her to him would demand that she reimburse all expenses incurred for the wedding and the processing of documents.

Galias says that some marriage migrants are being coached—by the brokers or agents or simply the people who put the two parties together—to lie about the length and depth of their relationship with their husbands.

Brokers also organize “show ups” —where several girls gather in hotels, restaurants or even the back of vans for the prospective husband to choose from.

***

The developing trends are alarming, says Galias. IN 2005, the average Filipina marrying a South Korean was between 25 and 29 years old, from the National Capital Region, is a college graduate, and has a job.

In 2009, the average age went down to 24-26 years old even as all the other descriptions remained. However, there was a marked increase in the number of high school graduates and unemployed women.

A big age difference between spouses is also common. The average Korean marrying a Filipina is in his 30s, of college level, and is either a professional or a worker in the agriculture sector (i.e., a farmer).

In 2009, the commission processed the documents of nearly 2,000 Filipinas on their way to Korea.

Galias does not discount the fact that some of these marriages may have arisen out of genuine love or at least friendship, nurtured by a considerable length of acquaintance. However, she believes that their processes—looking at how many times the foreigner has gone to the Philippines, how well he knows his partner, her family and the culture here, and why the marriage has to take place as soon as possible—help stem cases of mail-order brides.

And they could do more—if only the law was on their side.

Republic Act 6955—An act to declare unlawful the practice of matching Filipino women for marriage to foreign nationals on a mail-order basis and other similar practices, including the advertisement, publication, printing or distribution of brochures, fliers and other propaganda materials in furtherance thereof—was passed in 1990. Central to the law is the matching of a pair through mail-order system or personal introduction. Penalty for such an offense is six to eight years imprisonment plus a fine of P8 thousand to P20 thousand.

The commission has pending cases against two female brokers at the moment.

Alas, the law was conceived at a time before the Internet. With the advent of the World Wide Web, suddenly there are better ways of getting acquainted, communicating, and arranging such unions. And since the law does not in any way contemplate online meetings, it is very easy for brokers to pose as dating sites. Now, too, there are Webcams and chatting facilities. Indeed the avenues and the possibilities have increased exponentially.

Galias hopes that after the President’s State-of-the-Nation Address next month, lawmakers could file bills amending the outdated law. Foremost, she hopes that the interview of the bride by the commission could take place even before the marriage takes place, not after it. Many complications could be avoided this way.

The definition of mail-order brides should include the opportunities presented by mobile phone technology and the internet.

Stricter penalties must be imposed against guilty parties.

Finally, there must also be a guarantee that victims can be reintegrated into society after their marriage. Some women only see their dreams crumble and find it difficult to enter into a new relationship. The more unfortunate ones get beaten, shoved into sexual slavery, or killed.

Concluded next week

adellechua@gmail.com

Good life, better life

2011-06-26T07:39:00.004+08:00

My recent trip to Boracay was sponsored by an upscale resort hotel that was launching an air-conditioned tent and a special kind of speakers for big events. I was part of the media group, composed mostly of lifestyle writers who were flown in, ferried into, housed and fed.

A good life, many would agree.

The hotel was posh and the room assigned to each of us cost a good many thousands. I was by myself and did not have to deal with kids, their bickering and their clutter. My bed was huge.

Every meal was special and planned for. My Facebook album consists of a good number of food shots. Our first night there, the meet-up with hotel executives, was marked by a fancy, seven-course meal with both red wine and champagne. On Friday, when I checked out at noon, the hotel even gave me a packed lunch -- totally unexpected, but totally necessary, as it turned out, because my flight was delayed.

We were given gift certificates for a one-hour Swedish massage at the spa, and it was really all that was in the program for Thursday.

The most that was expected of you was that you show up for meals. And maybe we could have done more if there had not been a storm.

How cool is that, right?

I do not mean to sound ungrateful, but a peek into the good life only reinforced my belief that my crazy, imperfect one is way, way better.

Soon as the novelty wore off, I found myself wishing I was home. I missed the simple bowl of Mongolian Quickbox that I often buy at Food Choices in Glorietta, before I set off on my 30-minute hike to the office.

I missed the newsdesk and wondered what mood was prevalent at the time.

I missed the kids and wished they were adjusting well to the new school year.

I missed my living room.

I would not even say I fell in love with Boracay. If anything, I think this trip reminded me of the many great things I had been taking for granted.

I am sooo glad to be back.

Flight and fear

2011-06-23T10:39:00.005+08:00

Before boarding the 19-seater aircraft -- for the first time that afternoon

A flight crew member demonstrates how to use emergency things. I was mighty glad we did not have to.

Overcast skies over Caticlan hinted on what kind of weather we could expect for the rest of our stay.

The new airport will be inaugurated today, Saturday, 25 June.

Chopper carrying members of the President's security team. They are conducting an ocular three days before the President goes there.

I realized that no matter how I love travelling, I still cannot shake off my fear of flying. Maybe, I should be watching episodes of Air Crash Investigation less often.

Yesterday was particularly scary. I am on a junket of sorts to Boracay island, an assignment for the lifestyle section (yes, the editor sometimes throws these things my way). My original flight was at 3pm, but I was moved to the earlier, 2pm one. That supposedly earlier flight was delayed, and so it became 230.

Inside the 19-seater aircraft, I was wondering exactly where the storm Falcon was at that instant. We started moving for the runway. And then the right propeller would not turn, even as the left one was already doing so.

After several tries, the pilot decided to have us return to the pre-depature area. They had faulty indications, he said.

I wished then that the airline could just move us to another aircraft. But no, we were told the problem was being fixed and that our next estimated time of departure would be at 4pm.

After a while, we were called to the counter and told that we were being transferred to Zest air, which would leave for Kalibo at 510.

Before we could decide whether we liked that arrangement or not, we were then told again that the Seair plane was all right, and that we would be boarding soon.

Once inside, the pilot assured us that everything was all right. But it took another while for the right propeller to turn again. Still, we positioned ourselves in the runway, and eventually took off.

I think this is what I don't like the most about flying: the actual moment that you are physically separated from the ground. Whatever happens then, you would be left at the mercy of circumstances -- the weather, the instruments of the aircraft, the judgment and skill of the pilots. No matter how much you want to yell "stop!" and then alight, there is nothing you can do.

I hoped the engine would not stop in mid-air, causing us to stall.

It was 4:10 when we took off. Then came the longest hour. The aircraft, being a small one, did not fly at high altitude. Thus from my window on Seat 7 (I had no seatmates) I could see the roofs of houses, the roads, even the vehicles driving along them. There were fields and then water and then islands -- I wished I had a route map so I would know where we were already.

Turbulence. There was a storm and some dark clouds. At several points during the trip we swayed left to right and up and down. Sometimes we flew into a universe of white clouds, and I could not see anything -- nor can the pilots from their windshield -- except white smoke. Did it feel this way in heaven, I wondered. Without thinking I started mouthing some Catholic prayers I had learned when I was a child. That's neat, I would later on realize. Fear prods us to think we can hang on to something bigger than ourselves.

Finally at a little after five we touched down at the Boracay airport in Caticlan. I looked forward to the next few days and some time to rest, but I was mostly relieved at being on the ground again.

I've been up in the air several times already, and I liked discovering new places, but how to do all that with this near-paralyzing fear? I guess then that I will just have to do this more often. And then maybe I'll get the hang of it -- sooner, I hope, rather than later.

Bad time for a great idea

2011-06-21T02:22:00.002+08:00

The divorce bill deserves its own day.

The just-ended congressional session has been particularly interesting. Recall the 2011 budget being passed in record time, members of the House voting to impeach the former Ombudsman and then supporting a resolution to bury the former President Ferdinand Marcos, debates over the reproductive health bill reaching fever pitch, with those advocating it and opposing it speaking with equal passion -- at times, ferocity.
Boxer-turned-lawmaker Manny Pacquiao joined the fray, and his interpellation of Rep. Edcel Lagman’s sponsorship speech at the House plenary was instructive on how NOT to discharge one’s duties as a congressman. Alas, the Catholic bishops even capitalized on the goodwill generated by Pacquiao’s most recent victory in making him the poster boy for opposition to the bill. Pacquiao’s wife’s initial admission about using artificial contraception sent a louder message, however: It highlighted women’s need to assert some form of ownership of their bodies, leaving some men and the unmarried religious officials in blissful disconnect, nay, ignorance.

There are numerous angles to the bill. One would have to narrow down the discussion to any one of these aspects: education and free will, poverty, maternal health, infant mortality, sex education, teenage pregnancies, sexually transmitted diseases. But the moral angle was the most trumped up angle of all, resulting in unfortunate stereotypes: those who supported the bill had loose morals while those who opposed it were upright.

A few days before the end of the session, and even before any decisive legislative action could be made on the reproductive health bill, renewed attention was given to the proposal to legalize divorce in the Philippines.

House Bill no. 1799 is not new. It was filed last year by Gabriela party list Reps. Luzviminda Ilagan and Emerenciana de Jesus. What triggered the renewed attention was the development in Malta, which had passed a divorce bill via referendum. Now only the Philippines and the Vatican, home base of the Roman Catholic Church, are the states where divorce is not legal. (Then again, who in the Vatican would have use for divorce?).

So what new thing does this proposal offer, when there are already other means—legal separation, annulment and declaration of nullity—by which marriages can be challenged?

Legal separation allows the parties to live separately, but the marriage is not dissolved and neither party can contract marriage with a new partner.

Annulment recognizes the existence of a marriage until the time it is invalidated. The consent of one or both parties to the marriage must be proven to be vitiated at the time of the exchange of vows. After an annulment, parties are restored to their single status.

Declaration of nullity makes it as if there was no marriage at all in the first place. The most common ground for nullity is psychological incapacity, as provided for in Article 36 of the Family Code of the Philippines. The parties could remarry afterwards because they have, technically, never been married.

Under this scheme, proving that one or both parties possessed the incapacity at the time they contracted the marriage (although it may have manifested after) means obtaining the services of a psychologist or a psychiatrist. These professionals do not come cheap.

Because of this, many people in troubled or abusive marriages who are unable to afford lawyer fees, court fees and expert-opinion fees, simply opt to separate in fact. Many of them eventually find other partners, cohabit with them and eventually sire more children—fuelling a cycle of living by common law.

Those who can afford to shoulder the expenses, however, may simply use their resources to allege incapacity on their partner or themselves, exaggerating their stories as they tell them to their chosen experts. This is how badly they want to extricate from their unsatisfactory marriages, even though the reasons may not be as compelling, psychologically taxing or physically damaging as the others.

Is this not the bigger mockery of marriage?

It’s the usual suspects, non-fans of the measure point out. There is the breakdown of the family, the effect on children, the separation of what God has bound together. It’s an easy way out and couples having problems would then opt for the easy way out instead of working on their issues. Teenagers will also rush headlong into marriage, knowing that there is always the option of divorce when things do not work out.

In my column “Are we ready for divorce?” published August 16, 2010 in this space, I argued in favor of the proposal, writing:

“What causes the breakdown of a relationship is not the availability of divorce as an option but a behavior that emboldens a spouse to not treat his or her partner with respect and love. It is committing violence in any form, or infidelity. Indeed marriages fail because one or both of the parties do not get their act together.

“Likewise, taking marriage seriously is an attitude molded in an individual – by his family, by his education, by his religion and society. We must change our views on why couples should get married in the first place. For example, and this applies especially to provinces, an unplanned pregnancy, BY ITSELF, is not enough reason to get hitched. At the onset, there should be a genuine commitment to stay on despite difficulties, work out differences—and that severance of the ties should be the very last resort.”

* * *

But there is a problem, and it does not have anything to do with merit. Rather, the timing of the renewed interest on the divorce bill may inadvertently undermine the legitimate need to debate the pros and cons, the fine details of the measure. Because it is so closely identified with the reproductive health bill, pushed as it is, for the most part, by the same people pushing for RH, people may think they are similar.

Divorce debates deserve their own day. Who cares if we are the only country outside the Vatican without such an option? What’s more important is for the Filipino public to appreciate it and know exactly what it wants to achieve after recognizing its complexity. This could take months, rather, years. And then we can hold our representatives accountable for their action—or inaction.

It’s a mindset we are trying to change here. The issue needs time to ripen and mature—otherwise it is doomed to fail.

After the State-of-the-Nation address of the President on July 25, when Congress convenes again for a brand-new session, our lawmakers need to summon first their energy to act on the business they left behind—and this includes RH, among others. At least on this matter, it is time to set the debates aside and see how our elected representatives would vote on an issue that’s already been much dissected, and has become truly ripe.

With that out of the way, all of us can plunge into discussing, with equal fervor, divorce, without falling into the trap of faulty association, oversimplification or plain bigotry.

adellechua@gmail.com

Last day of service

2011-06-19T06:06:00.008+08:00

Up until the end, this little lightweight white thing enabled me.

This is a tribute to my ASUS Eepc, which I got three years, two months and thirteen days ago.

I got it because it was affordable, small, portable, and white.

It has served me well -- indeed, a workhorse. It has enabled me to write many things: Columns, editorials, blog posts, two entire books. It did crash once or twice, and its keyboard and charger have had to be replaced, and on some crucial days its wireless network adaptor conks out. With it, I could not chat or post comments to my own/ others' posts on Facebook. Its Shift key does not also work. Its suite of applications makes it cumbersome for me to transmit to other users. But nobody's perfect. We love what we love no matter what. Despite all these, it has been a great enabler.

Up until yesterday, its last official day of service, the Asus served me well. I took it to San Mateo, Rizal, hooked it up to an LCD projector and used it to run a powerpoint presentation for a half-day workshop I gave to student writers. The workshop went well -- and now the Asus bows out.

I am upgrading to a new tool that would enable me to do much more. It is not without a pang of nostalgia, though, that I give the Asus up. I will pass it down to Bea and I hope she is ever mindful of its worth -- not how much it costs, but how well it enables.

Refusing to put up

2011-06-17T18:20:00.004+08:00

This morning on my way to Quezon City, as I accompanied Josh in filing his college application, we boarded a cab that I early on noticed charged me way too much than usual. Traffic was bad, it being a Friday morning, but it still did not justify that barely a kilometer into our journey, the meter was already approaching P80.

I asked the driver why that was so, and he said "wala na ho tayong magagawa, ganyan na ang metro" (we cannot do anything more, the meter is like that). I disagreed, albeit most respectfully. Oh yes, I could do something. I could take down the cab details (operator Gaudencio de Guzman, plate number UVL-183). I could choose not to put up with a blatant act of thievery. I gave the driver a hundred pesos and asked him for change, right then and there. Since he did not have a smaller bill, he asked me to give him whatever small change that I had with me instead. I took it as a tacit admission that there was, indeed, something wrong with his meter. Josh and I pooled our resources -- came up with something close to P30 -- and refused to be made fools of. We alighted, boarded a comfortable bus and went about our business.

In UP, the line was impossibly long at Land Bank, where applicants had to pay their examination fees for the UPCAT. It was the last day for such -- something I discovered all too late. There was a mass of students and parents outside the bank, and the security guard held on to two stacks of deposit slips that were each at least three inches thick. We had to fill out one of those, pay, and then get back to the registrar's office to submit the documents.

I asked the guard what time he thought our payments could be processed. He said those who submitted forms before the bank opened at 9 might have to wait until noon. But Josh and I arrived at 930. It could take until 2:00. Everybody was milling about, not quite happy but resigned to the prospect of spending the next three or four hours waiting.

So I asked the guard if there were alternatives, and he, in almost a whisper, suggested we try another branch of the bank along Katipunan. There are no pointers to this branch, hidden as it is within a government office, but you will get there, just ask, he advised.

Josh and I took the jeep to Katipunan, crossed the widened streets, and took longer time filling out the deposit slip than we did lining up for payment. We were done in no time and took a cab back to the registrar's office. Another 20 minutes, and we were done, test permit on hand. Though I had already canceled a lunch meeting with a friend from high school and begged off from a management meeting early that afternoon, I still had time to make good on an interview appointment (for my column and for a school assignment) before I had to go to the office for my desk duties.

Last night, my friend Jenny and I made a pact to look out for each other and "chase the right happy" (her words, a play of my newspaper column) from now on. We have both been scarred by previous relationships, even now still trying to exorcise some misplaced affections. At the same time we are raising our children, managing our careers and pursuing higher studies (she is a PhD candidate from UP) fairly well, thank you.

Our mantra: Only the worthy ones will be considered, we won't settle for less. We will live fully -- with or without a partner.

It does feel good to walk away from something which -- or somebody who -- does not give you what you deserve.

Manila time

2011-06-15T20:48:00.002+08:00

At a pre-determined hour,
everyone keys in
from wherever. Whatever
he is doing, night or day
warm or cold,
the conversation -- the week's highlight --
begins, and everything else
fades into the background.

i am transported
to a different time,
a different climate,
when i knew another fellow
at the other end of the screen.

alas, the words dried up
and i dropped out of the conversation,
tossing my password out to sea.

--- not without regret.